


What's It To 'Ya?

by MotelsandDiners



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A Dog Named Duke, Angry Dean, Angry Sam, Aussie OMC, Badass Female OC, Ballsy Reader, Blood, Bonding (not bondage. Sorry), Brave OC, Canon Divergence, Castiel feeling Unqualified, Castiel feeling guilty, Character Development, Clueless Castiel, Creative License, Daring rescue, Dark Dean Winchester, Dark Oc, Dean Being Dean, Dean's Morals Are A Little Blurry, Death of an OC, DemonOC, F/M, Fear and Intimidation, Feelings of guilt, Fist-Fights In The Dark, Fluff, Guilty Reader, Incoherency, Interrogation, Invasion of Privacy, Language, Mystery character - Freeform, Nature Walks, Near Death Experiences, Negotiations, Nightmares, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Original Male Character(s) - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV First Person, Plans of Betrayal, Prison Break (not the show), Running From Trauma, Sam Feels Guilty, Sam and Dean Rescue an OC, Sam being brave, Sam's Kind Of A Softie For You, Self-revelations, Sillyness, Sloppy Negotiation on The Winchesters Part, Spunky Teenagers, Struggling with Morality, SweetOC, Tension, Violence, You Get Kidnapped, You're Okay With Running Someone Over, adorableness, being sick, chase - Freeform, dean being a martyr, dean being sweet, sarcastic oc, slight AU, slight angst, you stole the Impala
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-09-23 11:26:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 72,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9654788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotelsandDiners/pseuds/MotelsandDiners
Summary: They're after you. Their intentions: Unsavory. Their motives: Unknown. How in the Hell did a 17 year-old kid like you, without a clue, end up on the Winchester's most wanted list? More importantly, how do you get off of it?





	1. Can't We Just Talk This Out?

You’re breathing heavy, nerves and muscles and bones and skin trembling with aftermath and blood. And the color green.

It’s heavy across the room, weighted with anger and wrath, narrowed with hostility, darkened with it. The air settles, iron and gunpowder, adrenaline tinging the atmosphere with lingering trails of violence that you try to cling to with twitching fingertips and a wet tongue over numb lips.

You know you should go, this staring contest can only last so long before he finds his mind’s purpose and he reaches across the limp bodies and dismembered limbs to reprimand and dispatch justice.

He blinks, and you take off with lithe movements, boxes and crates and chains visual inconveniences rather than obstacles. He curses, rough and fiery and thumps after you, weaving and shouldering things out of his way.

A table you slide over, it tips with your weight and you barely feel it before your feet hit the floor and you sprint, quick and light towards the stairs, vision narrowed. The stairs wobble below you, you hear a grunt as he jumps over the table you over-turned and you widen your gait, breath sawing out of you.

You slip through the crack of the gate-like doors, spin around a metal gurney and head towards the end of the hall, boots slapping dully on cracked concrete, echoing empty walls and tall ceilings with enough reverberation to vibrate your cells.

He bangs into the door with a hiss, borderline furious, and wrenches it open with a growl. “Y/N!”

Idly, you wonder where his brother is and why you haven’t-

“Oh shit!” Sam barks, hardly a second to register you before you slam into him and send him stumbling back into the edge of the wall’s corner.

You wince, twirl because turning around and righting yourself would take too much time, and glide past him like running into a solid wall of muscle hadn’t knocked you breathless.

“What-?” Sam blinks, braced against the wall with a glance in your direction. And then Dean bursts out into the hallway, knocking over a gurney with a curse. Dean trip-tip-taps his way to a broad stance and glares down the hallway after you.

He spots Sam looking like a deer in headlights and yells. “Sam, go after her!”

That’s all the information the younger Winchester needs before he finds his sense and his six-foot strides and tears after you, hearing small _tick-tack_ ’s of your boots further down and around a corner.

You stumble over a random toilet in the middle of the hall and glare into the cell it came from, thinking maybe an inmate had watched too much Prison Break in the rec-room. Loud, heavy footsteps reach your ears and you give a sigh before taking off again.

You’ve barely reached the end before his footsteps become clear, his breathing a direct course straight to you, and you curse yourself for allowing them to lure you to the second floor. There’s no gate for this hallway, it’s been ripped off its tracks and thrown into the adjoining stretch of hallway, bent at the middle.

You jump over it, legs long and aim for the door at far end, knowing it leads to a stairwell. They argue behind you, disjointed words, quick growls that bounce and fracture by the time they reach you. This hallway’s a mess, glass, wood from picture frames, toilet paper, random pieces of paper, old stains from what could be blood. What you hope is blood…

There’s a chair laying near the door, luckily metal because otherwise it would’ve started to rot. You snatch it with swift hands, drag it after you and hear them curse when they realize what you plan on doing.

You slam the door shut after, cram the back of the chair under the knob and start skipping, sliding down the stairs. They’re not far behind you, you hear them both ram into the door, voices mingling with ire and frustration, and you don’t bother to slow down and listen.

Your breath is burdensome in your lungs, tight and hot and mean and your legs have long since turned to iron, joints rusted with protest. You’re down one section of stairs when you hear the _brrrrch-ch-chk_ of the frame and hinges, the wood as it vibrates on its threshold.

You’ve just touched the landing at the bottom of the next flight when the door gives way with a loud crack and crash, and the chair come tumbling down the stairs, flips and flops and twists down the space between the railing. You watch it spiral down, clanging and screeching and then you flick your gaze up to find them staring down two flights of stairs at you.

Time gets suspended where you glance between them, hazel and green, angry and angrier, tall and taller, stiff and stiffer. Dean’s always been the more intense one and you know if gets to you, that’ll be all she wrote.

So, you decide not to let him. It’s a twitch, a breath, a slip in eye-contact and you all shoot off, adrenaline and hot air breaking the silence. There’s fire at your back, and it sounds like _‘son of a bitch’, ‘goddamnit’, ‘fuckinghell’, ‘she’s dead’,_ and it makes you jump landings, twist around railings, sacrifice breath for length, and narrow everything in front of you to inches.

There’s no door for the bottom of the stairwell and you wish you had time to curse, but you hiss instead, an inward burst of air that snakes between your teeth, and gallop across the threshold, footfalls heavier with clenching fatigue.

You’re on the verge of dropping them, just so one of them will take the second to pick them up, but they’re your only way out of here, so you tighten your hold and ignore the way the edges dig into your palm.

You smack things out of your way, drag things into theirs and hope to holy Heaven that you don’t run into part three of their little trio.

The entrance is stout, short inward, but long sideways, stretching in both directions. Each leading to a cell block, though the doors/gates have been destroyed and lay haphazardly against the wall, and you’re somewhat glad for it because if you had to pull a gate open they’d be all over you.

You burst out the double doors with a gulping gasp, the cold sucking the air right from you, and stagger down the steps, discombobulated.

They both inhale sharply, hissing oaths, then they lock on you at the bottom of the steps and don’t make the mistake of starting a staring contest. But you’re already sidling along the wall, high-kneeing your way through tall weeds and scratchy grass, and they follow, scrambling and bumping into one another.

You have a small concern for snakes hiding in the grass but you brush it away when they hop into the thicket behind you. You hop, jump, skip, and stumble your way through, and hear the steady swish and _shhthh shhh_ of them wade through with far less trouble than you’re having and panic spurs you faster.

“Fuckfuckfuck!” you whisper-gasp when you break the wall of tangly grass and bounce your way to a jog, your limbs screaming, begging for a rest.

“That’s right babe. You’re fucked.” Dean says, and you don’t miss the way he punches it out, fast and hard, because he’s out of breath. You hear him groan for it, and then Sam speaks, closer than Dean.

“Just- give up before this gets ugly.” He sighs long afterwards, trying to ease his burning lungs.

You swivel, heels scratching on asphalt, squeaking because the soles are worn down. Dean is leaning on the corner of the wall, hand gripping the bricks for stability because he’s bent at the waist dragging breath with a grimace stretched wide. Sam is better off, though his chest rises and falls deeply, and he’s squinting in discomfort, but he’s not hunched like Dean.

You cough hard. “Yeah, then what?” Sam pinches his lips together, rolls them into his mouth because he’s not sure. But you are. “It’s gonna be ugly for me, no matter what. I am fucked,” you say, and meet Dean’s eyes. “But I’ll be damned if you kill me first.”

His expression pops, everything moving up on his face as he takes your words in with his ragged breathes, and then he shakes his head. He looks up at Sam, frowns an admittance and then nods at you.

Sam’s barely flexed his thigh muscles before you’re pivoting and shooting towards the car hidden in the dark beyond the tree-line, and you hear him groan/yell out a “Come on!”

“Go get her, you dumb moose!” Dean wheezes, slaps at Sam’s back weakly, and the moose takes off.

His strides are longer, but slower and you’re glad you’re so young. Sam may be fit, in mint condition for his age, but that’s just it. He’s older, and no matter how healthy he is, your vitality beats out his physique.

You hear him, “God,” pant “damn” pant “it.”.

You’re not much better off, you know you’re on the verge of vomiting, and only somewhat glad there’s nothing in your stomach. You slide, slip into the side of the car and scrabble for the handle because he’s heel-toeing with his six foot huge strides with a thunderous expression and you are toast if he gets a hold of you.

You duck in with a yell just as he skids to a stop and you slam the door shut, slapping the lock down with a shaky hand when he reaches for the handle.

“Get out of the car.” He orders, hand braced on the door’s frame, the other still gripping the handle, like he can hold the whole damn vehicle in place in case you decide to take off.

You huff and snort a dry laugh, shake your hand to the ignition and jam the key in after a few tries. He pulls on the door, wobbling the whole car back and forth and you flinch with the strength behind it.

He growls when you turn the engine over, tugs the door harder in vain, and you grit your teeth in response, regret creaking the enamel against enamel. It’s when you glance past his waist, forearms flexed and plaid swishing back and forth that you really begin to regret.

Dean has finally recovered, and he’s marching, shoulders high and hunched and murder- _murder_ -in his eyes, and his hand. Because he raises it, silver of his pistol glinting in the moonlight, and you slap a hand on the window,

“Shit! Sam!”

The giant moose peeks over his shoulder and stutters with wide eyes. “What- what. Dean?!” he spins, and yeah he’s pretty pissed at you, but he doesn’t want to see his brother shoot you dead in the front seat of the Impala, so he inches to the right, placing himself in front of you.

Dean doesn’t react so much as respond because that’s what he’s supposed to do. He’s got his eyes locked on you, peeking around the jut of Sam’s hip with gaping eyes and trembling lips, and he can’t bring himself to give a shit about the fact that he could put a bullet between your eyes and mosey on with business as usual.

His grip tightens on his gun, along with his eye contact and he stops about 10 feet away to steady his aim.  He breathes deep once, narrows his focus and exhales, willing your petrified curiosity to keep you in his sights, because he _will fucking shoot you._

“Move, Sammy.” He growls, curls his finger around the trigger…


	2. Survey Says 'No'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That went...not well. But you were still alive, so certainly better than you thought it'd go. What the Hell was with these guys, anyway? It was just a car, not- Jesusfuck! Did you see that guy in the middle of the road?   
> Keep your eyes on the road, kid. You never know what could just 'pop' up.

And you hit the gas, snap your gaze forward when the car lurches and hope that he really loves his car as much as he seems to.

“Wha- Y/N!” Sam shouts when gravel kicks up and the side of the car brushes him, bumps his hip, and he whirls torn between watching you disappear and trying to talk Dean calm.

Dean…

He’s glaring after you, gun still raised, though half-heartedly, and wondering just how much he’d be willing to do to kill you. The list is admittedly long.

Sam is hesitant to say anything while Dean’s gun is drawn but he grunts, stutters and Dean looks at him. “Uuhm…it’s not the first time someone’s stolen the car,”

“Really?” Dean stares, then gestures in your general direction with his gun. His heart whines the quieter the engine becomes in the distance. “It’s not just a car anymore, Sam-“

Sam interrupts, recognizing the lines of words, the expression that goes with them. “Yeah, Dean, I know. It’s ‘life and death’.”

Dean scowls at the table flat tone of Sam’s voice, and waves his hand, hoping if he swats hard enough his brother will be blown away. He pulls his phone from his pocket, squints at the dark screen because he refuses to turn the brightness up; he needs to make the battery last, and dials a number he could recite in a coma.

Sam huffs, sensing his brother’s lack of desire to talk to him and starts off in the direction you drove, treading in the tire-tracks with his hands in his pockets. He hears Dean grumble behind him.

“Hey, it’s me,”

A pause.

“No…”

Sam peers ahead into the darkness that’s gotten so much worse since all the major cities’ power had dwindled down to nothing. It’s quieter too, all around. Like the world has decided to take a global nap, and nobody’s woken up yet.

“I know. She still has the car, so no.”

It’s been awhile since they came across anyone that didn’t want to shoot them, or anyone younger than 25. The fact that someone like you, young and alone, and completely clueless is still alive confounds Sam to no end. But…you did steal their car, and all of their food, robbed them blind in the middle of the night-

Well, he’s not so surprised anymore.

“Look, I know we gotta get her, but do we _have_ to keep her alive?”

Sam snorts, finding his brother’s black-and-white stance abrasive, but not at all surprising. He was honestly worried that Dean would shoot you, he had become looser with his morals in the past few months, and Sam wouldn’t have put it past Dean to shoot you in the kneecap.

“She stole the car, that’s why!” a protest.

Sam rakes a hand along his scruffy jaw, and fears for your life when Dean actually gets a hold of you. He’d stop Dean from killing you, but…he’d stop Dean from killing you.

Dean sighs, long-suffering, and rubs at his eyes. He can’t remember the last time he slept. “Yeah. Fine.” He barks, squinting against heavy lids. “Just- see if you can find her again, and gimme a call.”

He hangs up with an irritated burst of air and strides his way to Sam, brows low, mood lower. “When I find this kid…” he trails off, remembering the feeling of the gun in his hand, how right it felt to point it at you…

“We,” Sam corrects, and looks at Dean. “When we find this kid-“ he breaks off, wondering what Dean will put in after, how he’ll fill up the space he’s made.

The older Winchester nods, purses his lips and thinks. “When we find her, we’ll get her to Cas, and whatever happens after, happens.”

Okay, that’s a little ambiguous, Sam thinks. He makes a note to keep a closer eye on his brother, because Dean seems to be walking a thin line, a line once crossed you can’t come back from.

 

“Hohshit-ohshit-ohshit!” you breathe, glancing in the rear-view like you expect them to pop up in the back seat with knives and shotguns, ready to paint the windshield with your blood.

“Fuck-okay, don’t think like that.” You tell yourself, tighten your grip on the steering wheel, and whine/slash laugh in desperation. God, you wish you could turn the radio on and listen to something to calm your nerves, but for the last week the only thing that’s played is static.

It was so stupid to go to that prison, but you thought…it looked like-

You tear a hand through your hair, fingernails scraping sharply and exhale shakily. You’ll find him, you will. You have to.

Thirteen days. It’s been thirteen days.

You made her a promise, you swore you’d protect him and keep him safe. And she believed you, as she held your hand and bled to death in a fucking bathroom.

You slam a hand against the wheel, grit your teeth, and dig deep for the ballsy teenager that would’ve laughed down the barrel of .45 three weeks ago. You find her when the bracelet around your wrist jingles, cool metal tickling your skin.

“Okay.” You say, reaching behind you for the phone in your back pocket. “Okay.” You repeat, hitting 1 on your speed-dial.

“You’ve reached the office of supreme awesomeness, how may I help you?” smooth words flow into your ear, helped by the accent.

“More like supreme Aussieness, Rowan. What have I told you about dreaming big?” you speak into the receiver, trying for that easy banter, which falls flat and flops like a dead fish.

He’s immediately sharper, humor gone. “Wasn’t there, was he?”

You sigh, flip off the head-lights because they could be seen from the city. “No, but someone was.”

He curses, hisses an inhale and disappears for a moment. “Do I even need to guess?” he comes back, voice louder, but the same gentle tone and you surmise that he’s shoved his phone between his shoulder and cheek.

“If you’ve got the time.” You sass, sounding uninvolved. You ease up on the gas, crack your window to better listen to the surrounding area.

“Sweetheart, I’ve always got time for you,” he shoots, and you hear paper rustle in the background, a dog bark. “Lay down, Duke-“ there’s a scuffle, mumbled thoughts, and then he sighs. “How are they keeping tabs on you?”

“I know you don’t expect me to have an answer.” You say, and he clears his throat. “Rowan, has Emily come back yet?” you venture, because you just haven’t had enough bad news lately.

“Fraid not, Pip.” He reports, going quiet after, just like you. Both of you wondering… “Anyway, are you close?” he tries to sound excited, hopeful, but pessimism creeps in. It’s the only protection these days against heartache and devastation.

“Not exactly,” you peek in the rear-view, squint, because…was there a guy in the middle of the road? You twist quick in your seat, grateful that it’s just straight asphalt ahead of you. “Listen…” you start and Rowan cuts you off.

“Darlin’ I’m already on it, I’ll see you in the morning. Keep safe.” He murmurs, voice going soft with consideration and worry.

You squint harder, not finding anyone. “Y-yeah. Thanks, and I will.” He hangs up, and you listen to the silence afterwards, gaze darting back and forth.

Sucking air between your teeth, you turn around, concerned for your sanity. You thought you saw a guy in a trench coat behind the car… You run a thumb over your eye in tired habit and concede that you haven’t slept enough the past two weeks.

But then you admit you might be crazy, because a few seconds later, he appears out of the dark in front of you, staring through the windshield with blank eyes.

“Shit!” you yell, and slam the brakes, bracing against the seat with anticipation. He doesn’t seem at all perturbed about being ran over, he doesn’t even move.

You have a second to soothe your mind, and it goes like this. _Oh well, wouldn’t be the first time I’ve ran someone over. Won’t be the last._


	3. Rowan Trescott Misses Brisbane, and You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rowan didn't do much per se. Mostly kept an eye on things, got everybody's ducks in a row, threw around sass when it wasn't appropriate, and spent his free time hoping you'd stop going out on suicide runs. But, you can't always get what you want, right? Like now, right now, he wanted to be in Brisbane, on the beach, feeling the sun, listening to the waves, shifting sand between his toes. What does he get? You, kidnapped. Negotiations over the phone. A dead possum. Yes, he fucking loves 'Murica.

Rowan leans back in his office chair, the stuffing flattened to the point of no longer being comfortable, and crosses his arms over his chest, rotating his caramel colored eyes along the row of computers in front of him, watching. Waiting.

Duke yawns in the corner, shakes his floppy-eared head and barks softly.

Rowan doesn’t budge, but he does drop his hand and wag his fingers in a ‘come hither’ motion that’s been familiar to Duke since he was a puppy.

He wags his tail happily and stands, stretching his haunches in the process. He pads over with enthusiastic bounces and flops down next to him, head raised so he can get scratches behind the ears and under the collar.

Rowan idly pats and rubs, his attention mostly on the screens in front of him, hoping for a spike in psionic activity. Or a ridiculous weather pattern, or just a plain regular SOS, but nothing happens. Nothing comes through, and he sighs through his nose in irritation.

He hates this. The waiting. The hoping.

In the end of the world, bad news is good news, and no news is bad news.

“That’s a bit squirrely if y’ask me-“ he says to Duke and immediately regrets it. The American foxhound’s head pops up with the mention of squirrel, and Rowan’s hardly a second to say ‘no’ before he’s up and trotting, keening excitedly.

“Shiiiit.” Rowan grouses, combing a hand through wild copper locks as he watches Duke bounce and wag his tail so hard it about disappears. He glances at his laptops, tic-tocks his luck and then gives in. “Fuuck. Ok.”

The second he stands, Duke barks, loud and quick and repetitive, telling him to hurry up. Rowan snags his jacket off the back of his chair, and points at Duke. “We’re not gonna’ be all day, y’hear me?”

Duke barks again, tossing his head with it and bounds up the stairs, thumping on the wood louder than a rhino. He hesitates at the bottom of the stairs, bounces a leg, and then lunges up the planks after his dog, hoping nothing happens while he’s out.

Duke’s waiting by the door, all of him wagging at this point, and looks at Rowan excitedly, feet tip-tapping back and forth.

Rowan smiles, just a little, and grabs the handle. “You wan’ out? Huh, you wanna chase sq-“

BARK!

“Go!” Rowan laughs and throws the door open, shaking his head as Duke tears out across the porch and leaps over the stairs with a full-chested bark. It’s chilly out, and he zips his jacket up and he thumps down the steps, missing the warmth of Brisbane.

Duke is zig-zagging around the yard, from tree to tree, growling and baying, confused about why there aren’t squirrels to chase.

Rowan chuckles, leans against the railing of the stairs, watches his breath cloud in front of him starchily. Duke has taken to looking at Rowan every time he stops in front of a tree, confused, and feeling like he’s been tricked.

“M’not climbin’ no trees in tha dark, Duke.” He tells him, hands in pockets. Duke whines, understanding a ‘no’ when he hears one. “Don’t be a sook.”

He sniffles, the tip of his nose gone cold and hikes his shoulders against autumn wind. You would’ve been happy to chase Duke around the yard. Heck, you would’ve climbed trees to try and find squirrels for his dog. He shakes his head with a smile that doesn’t last when he thinks about the past three weeks.

So much had changed… _you_ had changed so much. You were tired now, all the time, and you never smiled. Jesus, you weren’t even dedicated to sarcasm which was your default mode of communication. He wonders if you’ve eaten anything since the last time he saw you, probably not. You were too worried to eat anymore, too guilty to take care of yourself.

He wants you here so he can take of you, but he can’t stop you from being out there, looking for _him_. Hell, he wants to be out there. He misses the kid almost as much as you. He misses Emily too. It’s been a week since he heard from her, and she promised to call the next day…

He hates being stuck here, waiting for everyone. Duke senses his shift in mood and pads over, head low.

He watches everything, but he never does anything. He can never do anything. He just sits and waits, and watches, and reports. But he never _does_ anything.

Dukes whines quietly, and Rowan absentmindedly pats his head, thinking.

He wonders where you are, if you’ve slept at all. He wonders what happened at that prison. You sounded pretty shook up, despite the wall you had put around you. He could hear it, the subtle fear, the anxiety.

An owl hoots high in the trees, and Duke forgets his master is sad for a second because he shoots off in search of it.

He wonders if Jace is still out there, and if he is, where? Was he scared? Was he waiting on someone to come save him?

He hopes you get back fast. It’s been forever since he’s seen you, talked to you, or anyone really. Maybe he can convince you to stay a couple days before you run off again, long enough that he can get some food in you.

He hopes he gets a phone call from Emily, soon.

His cellphone rings in his pocket and he jumps. He fumbles it out of his pocket with excited fingers, daring to be optimistic, and doesn’t even bother looking at the screen before pulling it open.

“Emily?” he asks, air high in his chest with hope.

It’s quiet for a second on the other end, then, “No, not quite.”

Rowan staggers, heart-beat stopping and everything in front of him tilts. “Who’s this?” he mumbles, grabbing onto the banister.

There’s another pause in conversation, but this time it isn’t quiet. There’s grumbling, arguing and shuffling, and then there’s someone new on the phone. And they don’t sound happy if their labored breathing is anything to go on.

“Doesn’t matter,” they snap into his ear. “What matters is that we have Y/N, and you have something of ours.”

He drops the phone, blood going cold. Who-? What?

_“Hello? Hello? …He dropped the fucking phone. I don’t know. He dropped. The. Phone.”_

Rowan scrambles in the dark, fingers numb as he drags and rakes the ground for his cell.

_“You still there? I don’t need to prove we have_ Y/N, do I?”

Rowan pinches the bridge of his nose. “No. What is it you want?” he’s so shell-shocked, he uses proper grammar.

“The book.” Is growled into his ear, and it sounds final, no room for negotiation. Not that he’d negotiate with your life on the line, anyway.

Everything drags. His eyelids, his shoulders, his breath, his goddamn mind. “…okay.” He agrees, trying not to think of what they might have done to you. “Where? When?” he asks, chest tight, like his heart is being slowly squeezed inside his ribcage.

“Tomorrow, that church on the outskirts of town.”

Rowan knows the place, thank God. It won’t take long to get there, the area around it expansive, bare. Make it easy to see an ambush coming, it’ll be easy to see him coming, he realizes.

“Alright,” he blinks rapidly, willing away his fatigue. “Before you hang up, I wanna talk to her.” He says, lip between his teeth as he waits.

There’s more grumbling on the other end, quiet arguing, he can vaguely make out the words ‘Cas’, ‘car’, ‘Aussie’, and then that gruff voice is back.

“You’re on speaker, _mate_.” The last word is sneered, and Rowan wonders what the Hell this guy has against Australians.

And then he hears your voice, and closes his eyes in relief. “Rown,”

“Jesus Christ, luv, I gave ya’ one job. Take care o’yourself,” he tries to laugh, but it comes out stunted.

“M’sorry, Row’n,” you slur into the phone, voice thick. “Fin’ Jace. Lemme go.”

He balks, maybe he chokes on air, or even curses. He doesn’t know, your plea leaves him senseless, everything goes silent for a second while your words tumble around his brain.

He wants to find the kid, he does, really. But truth is, he cares about you more. You’re closer, he can get to you. He can save you.

“No.” he says, and strengthens his voice. “I’ll see ya’ tomorrow.” And he hangs up because he knows you’ll argue til the cows come home, or whoever kidnapped you will end up cutting the conversation short anyway.

He groans, throwing his head back, and grips his phone so tight the plastic creaks. Well, it looked like he’d finally be doing something.

Saving your ass. He’d be saving your ass.

“Duke!” he yells, and his dog comes flying out of the dark with something hanging from his mouth. He grimaces, decides Duke can keep whatever Hell he killed, and stomps up the steps to the house.

His dog is close behind, trotting and tail swishing, as happy as a dog can be, dead possum dangling from his muzzle. It wasn’t a squirrel, but for 12 in the morning, it was close enough.

Rowan shuts the door behind him, eyeing the possum in Duke’s mouth with some suspicion. When it remains in Duke’s mouth all the way down to the basement, he shrugs, “At least someone had a good night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm honestly loving how every chapter just creates more questions and less answers. But don't blame me, it's just kind of writing itself. Also, give some love to Rowan, who knows how long he'll be around. It's sort of my shtick to kill characters I like, and I really fucking like Rowan.


	4. Don't Tell Me To Calm Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You didn't expect your night to come to a head like this, this is the exact opposite of what you were hoping for. No pulling any Houdini disappearing acts this time around, no amount of running could save your ass now. Rowan was going to be so worried.

Your breath was tight in your chest, sharp and clinging to the walls of your lungs as you waited for impact. And you made it, just not in the way you thought you would.

Instead of him rolling over the hood and cracking into the windshield, or getting dragged under the car like you expected him to, _he_ braces.

The car stops in front of him, abruptly and against all common sense or physics. It gets even crazier because you see his hands on the hood, gripping near the grill, just laying there, not even tensed.

“What…the _fuck_?” you ask no one in particular, wondering how much crazier your night can get. He at least doesn’t seem surprised he stopped the car with his bare _fucking hands_.

You stare at him in perplexed awe, maybe a little trepidation because something about him is familiar and not in a good way. He’s calm, stoically so, and his dark blue eyes bore into yours, curious and contemplating.

Then they narrow, and you bristle in your seat, hands curling around the steering wheel. You think about the machete on the floor near your feet, and the gun in the glove box and wonder which, if either, would be effective.

“Get out of the car.” He says, barely louder than the stalling engine, and you crack an incredulous look at him.

_Um…no._

He holds your stare longer than you’re comfortable with and finally blinks. He straightens, keeps a hand on the hood, fingertips only and reaches into his trench coat with his other.

You’re ready for a knife, or a gun, a grenade, you don’t know, but you’re prepared for something awful to come from the confines of his coat.

He pulls out a cellphone, and you suck on your teeth in confusion. _A cellphone? Who’s he calling, AAA?_

“I’ve found her,” he says, looking at you, the tightness of your shoulders, the springs ready to snap there, and then drops his gaze to the hood of the impala.

_What? He’s been looking for me? Who is this guy, who’s he talking to?_

You decide not to stick around and find out, and only spare a second to hope no one holds this hit-and-run against you.

You slam your foot on the gas, hoping that his distraction and lack of stance will be enough for you to get away. But when the pedal hits the floor and the car remains in place, you frown.

You pump the gas, features twisting with irritation, and confusion. When you look up, he’s staring at you again, palm flat on the hood and you realize it’s quiet.

_Did he…kill the engine?_

“Not far, just passed that abandoned farm.” He responds, gaze shooting off in the dark to peer at hazy landscape, probably that farm, if you had to venture a guess.

You chew your lip in worry, wondering what the hell to do. The car was useless now, thanks to him and his car killing powers. You doubted you could outrun him, he seemed pretty fast, otherworldly. I mean, the guy could apparently teleport. Who knew if he bled?

End of the world and Superman shows up.

“She isn’t going anywhere,” he states firmly, confidently and you _oh fuck_ in the front seat with your eyes because he’s dead serious.

You flit your gaze around the cab of the car, hoping the answer to this situation will just appear in front of you, and he continues his chit-chat, unconcerned about your fraying nerves.

“You can’t. I know, but Dean-“

Your blood goes cold when you hear his name and you splutter on air. This guy knows Dean. This guy is talking to Dean. Dean is coming _here_.

The last thought has you hiccupping and straight rolling out of the car, limbs wobbly even as you take off into the field beside the road, nothing on your mind except _get the Hell out of here._ You can’t see worth a damn, but you know you’re putting the car and that trench coated man behind you and that’s good enough.

Your mind is a litany of curse words, and unbeknownst to you, your mouth is repeating them. Your breath is loud in your ears, and the crunching of grass and dead weeds under your sloppy footfalls doesn’t even register.

“I have to go. She’s trying to run.” You hear the remark, soft from distance but the note of irritation and disappointment is clear to you even from a hundred feet away. You laugh shakily, _Trying to run._

That’s what he said. You were trying to run. Like he didn’t expect you to get anywhere, like he knew you wouldn’t. Tall slivers of barnyard grass and brome slap you across the cheeks and scrape your hands as you fumble and iron-leg jog as fast as fear will allow you.

You glance behind you and don’t see him on the edge of the road, no dim color of tan, or struggling white of his dress shirt greets you from the rise of asphalt and you grit your teeth, unwilling to sacrifice air on a whimper.

You’re desperate enough to believe that you’re somehow ahead of him, that you’ve got time and distance, but that hope flat-lines when you run into him.

One second you were staring into the darkness ahead of you, the next he was just there, stiff and still even as you collided with him full-force.

You gasp, air getting torn from you upon impact and hit the ground with a whine that gets stuck in the back of your throat. You don’t have the oxygen to move but somehow you do, feet and hands scrabbling on tangles of grass to pull you backwards and you think you see his eyes squint, eyebrows fall flat like he’s not surprised but he’s also unimpressed.

He sighs, reaches for you and you cough in protest, slapping his arm away with as much strength as you have in your bones at the second. Which isn’t much, because he continues grabbing for you, unperturbed.

“Wait-“ you wheeze, and he doesn’t bother to listen, only eases your flailing limbs into one hand, wrists almost numb because he’s squeezing so hard, and pulls you upright on your feet in one tug. Muscles in your shoulders twinge, and your elbow joints crack with the swiftness of it. “Ah!”

You think you should try kicking at him or something but he’s got you pulled so long the tips of your sneakers barely touch the ground, and he’s not even straining to hold your weight, he looks bored if you’re honestly taking the time to catalog his repertoire of 3 facial expressions.

And then he dips his shoulder, bends his arm and you’re more or less dragged over his right shoulder like a heavy, dead fish. His arm is quick to clamp around the back of your knees, halting any squirming or struggling. But you get fistfuls of his trench coat in your hands and you use it as leverage to haul your upper half in a position where you can look over your back and his shoulder.

He surprises you by walking back to the impala, not poofing or teleporting or whatever the hell it is he did. You glance around helplessly, heartbeat climbing with every step he takes towards the car and when his feet finally scrape along asphalt, you find your voice.

“Lemme go!” you say, trying to coax strength into your legs, but all you can do is tense them. And you can do little more than hold on with your hands.

He ignores you, and you hear his trench coat whisper, fabric brush as he reaches for his cellphone again. You groan, squeeze your eyes shut, and hang limp, listening to him talk.

“Are you close?”

A pause, where you flex your stomach against the edge of his shoulder because it’s hard to breathe like this.

“Yes. _I_ still have her…the car too.”

Briefly, you think of Rowan and how adamant he always was about you staying home, convinced that nothing good would come of you being out and about alone. You like to think he’d be smug, but you know he’d be worried, it’d probably suck all the Australian from him if he knew how much trouble you were in right now.

“Of course she is. Wait, are you talking about Y/N or the car?”

You really didn’t like that you were a topic of conversation, didn’t like the affiliation you had with the car. FYI, you stole it, and it became apparent pretty early on that nobody fucked with the impala, nobody. And you fucking stole her.

As if that wasn’t bad enough…

“…yes…well, I may have had to kill the engine. But I can fix it.” Castiel admits slowly, lessens his grip on your knees because he feel your pulse against his arm, built up and strong from restricted blood-flow. “I think…” he murmurs that to himself.

You played them to get it. Acted all lost and innocent and helpless, and they fucking melted like sun-warmed chocolate. They watched you like a hawk, gave up the best food when it came time to eat, they let you sleep longer, gave you the thickest blankets…told you stories that would make you laugh because this big ugly world had stolen your joy. Je-sus.

“I’m not sure, I haven’t gotten the chance to look.”

You blink, labored. _Look at what?_ You think half-heartedly, feeling tired despite the danger looming over you.

What was that sound? Little tip-taps…was it raining?

You hear chatter from the phone, indistinct but you can you actually hear it now, and you furrow your brow.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea…”

More grumbling, and Castiel huffs, bouncing you on his shoulder, you tighten your midsection again. And squeak when he turns, facing the back of the car. You try to crane your neck, wondering what he’s looking at when he speaks again. “Because you’re angry- yes you are.”

Did he…did he sound worried?

That had your jaw tingling with oncoming nausea. And then you hear those tip-taps again, louder, and more of them, they sound dull…and closer.

“You need to calm down-“ he’s cut off on the other end, and it’s easy to distinguish Dean’s rough timber, though his words are blurry, you hear the intent behind them and your breathing starts to pick up.

“Dean-“ this time there’s no crackle, no vibration of Dean’s voice that comes tumbling out of the phone’s speaker. This time, you hear it loud and clear with your own ears.

“I am completely- _fucking_ -calm.” It’s cold and measured, and it does sound calm, but if you learned anything from spending a week with them, it was that Dean didn’t _do_ calm.

You slap at Castiel’s back, sometimes managing to curl your shaking hands into fists. “Let me down! Lemmedown!” He jolts, mostly from surprise, and you think maybe he won’t listen because Dean is ‘fucking calm’ but he does something that worries you infinitely more.

He shuffles back a couple of steps, _away_ from Dean, and turns slightly, angling the other side of his body towards his eerily quiet friend. “Give your gun to Sam,” he demands, tone accusatory and cautious, and you hear Dean inhale. Breathing had never sounded so angry.

Suddenly, you don’t want to be put down. You actually feel much safer where you are, even if you are helpless against the rigid strength of the arms around your legs.

“Sure,” he aims for agreeability but it sounds too sharp, too hard, and you hope no one buys the bullshit he’s putting on display. “Here, Sammy.”

Fabrics shifts, shoes scrape pavement, and then Dean claps his hands, startling you on Castiel’s shoulder. “There, see? Everything’s good.” He declares, aloof, but you can feel him looking at you and it makes your spine shudder against flesh and tendons.

“…very well,” comes the rumble from beside your waist, and your organs disengage in fear alone. You actually scrabble to hold onto him as he lowers you, and you curse at him inwardly. You didn’t even know Dean well, but even you could tell he was breathing murder in your direction.

Your feet hit the ground and you spin, pressing back into the stonewall behind you. His green eyes meet yours and you about piss yourself on the spot, because while he’s breathing easy, and isn’t foaming at the mouth, there’s a promise in his forest-greens. And you wonder how the other two people here don’t see it.

“See? I’m not gonna kill her, you guys need to chill out.” He even shrugs while he says it, and he looks damn believable, sounds it too, and you want to think he means it, but there’s an edge, a nip in the air when he looks at you.

“Cas, see if you can’t fix my car,” he suggests, and it sounds like ‘Cas, fix my car’. So he does, hesitating only for a moment behind you before he’s gone. And then there’s open space between you and Dean, open space behind you, no one to protect you.

Sam wavers at Dean’s shoulder, peering sideways at his brother in open worry, and you hope he stays close.

“Sammy, look for the book.”

Right, of course they want the book. You flick your gaze elsewhere, knowing they won’t find it, you made sure of that.

Sam glances at you, hazel eyes unreadable, pauses, then opens the back door and ducks his upper half in, knee on the seat. He might as well be in China now.

“You have fun on your joy ride?” he asks you, smiling too widely and you swallow, throat closing on dry air.

Sam disappears further in the car, having spied your cellphone sitting on the front benchseat. He snatches it up and settles in the back, long legs scrunched.

“Not exactly,” you croak, a shudder lingering along the top of your spine and shoulders. You glance at Sam, nose deep in your phone, and turn your head to look at Cas, he’s leaning over the hood of the impala, hands flat on the metal with a furrowed brow.

“Probably the heat, right? Been meaning to fix that.” He remarks, and you jump, snapping your gaze back to him. He’s closer, a couple six-foot strides closer, and you didn’t even hear him move.

_Yeah, the heat, that’s why I didn’t have the time of my life._

Common sense should have you back-pedaling, even just inching away from him, but you don’t budge a muscle, too ensnared in morbid anticipation to do much else besides gape.

“It’s spring,” you blurt quietly, and he tilts his head, lips pursing in annoyance, like you’ve spoken out of turn. “Don’t need the heat.” You finish lamely, and he tuts, exasperated.

But when he speaks, he worms a smile onto his lips, teeth flashing. “Nah, a few thick blankets would be good enough,” his tone is acid, biting, and you flinch. You know what he’s alluding to. Those freezing nights in the impala where him and Sam sacrificed their blankets and even their jackets to keep you warm.

Your heart scrunches in your chest, shrivels, and you open your mouth to say something, but he’s there with more words.

“Suppose the hot chocolate was a luxury for you then, funny, considering you stole that and everything else we had,” he murmurs, and you don’t realize he’s close until his shadow falls over you, dark and cold.

You want to apologize, or even explain why you did what you did, but the words die before they even touch your lips.

“Oh, but thanks for leaving that jug of water. Real considerate.” He snarls down at you, and you tense down to atoms. You feel the backs of your eyes burn with sincerity, not crocodile tears that forced their walls down when you first met them.

You work your tongue around your mouth, blink a couple times to stave off the sting and inch your gaze up. He’s staring down at you, lips a hard line, eyes scathing, and you resist the urge to curl in on yourself.

“I’m s-“

You don’t even finish before he snaps.

It’s like you’ve been hit on the side of the head with a cinderblock his fist is so hard. Pain blossoms immediately, and you’re pretty sure you can feel a bruise forming. You’d have staggered back, but he gets a handful of your shirt and tugs you steady, fist already en-route again.

This time it’s your mouth, he splits your lip, and jars your teeth so bad you’re sure a few of them have loosened. Blood spurts, the world tilts, black claws at the edges of your vision, you barely hear someone yell ‘Dean!’ before he cracks you again with a fist like iron.

This time it all disappears and you get pulled under.

He’s half-way to punching you again even as you go limp when Sam’s there with arms under his own, and Cas is prying his hand out of your shirt.

You’re out cold, face already donning some pretty colors. He busted your lip open, even split your eyebrow with that first blow, and one of your eyes is on its way to swelling shut.

Dean’s huffing, puffing and shaking with lingering anger, gritting his teeth as he watches Cas scoop you up far too gently than he thinks you deserve. Sam hasn’t let him go, and Dean doesn’t care, your blood is dripping off his knuckles and the sensation actually calms him, gives him peace.

“See?” he says, and both his travelling companions regard him with appropriate amounts of worry and consideration. “Told you I wouldn’t kill her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...damn. Initially I wasn't going to write the kidnapping scene, but here we are. Now, I think I'm going to work an interrogation scene? Yes, no? Let me hear your thoughts on that. Next chapter will either be a flashback, or we'll get to see what's going on with the other OC. As always, take it easy, lovelies. Life is rough.   
> See you soon.


	5. Jace Callahan Misses You Too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn't have a lot of people left that cared about him, or whom he cared for. But you were one of them, and the end of the world was worth it because he got to meet you. He'd never take the moments with you for granted, because he was fully aware that you could be taken from him in the blink of an eye. It was rare to find someone that made you smile all the time, and he found you.

_It’s quiet, cool, and mellow in the early morning softness of dawn. A light fog hangs over the ground in milky clouds that curl and roll slowly like waves against a shore. It’s silent in the house, no one awake yet because the night ran too long, and the morning came too fast. But he is._

_He’s blinking lethargically, amber eyes crawling along the floor littered with clothes and blankets, a couple battery powered lanterns throwing dim glow around the room. She’s asleep across from him, burrowed down in blankets, her pillow askew._

_He listens, hears Duke pad around downstairs, nails click-clacking on the floor, his collar jingle, and he slips out of bed, socks quiet against the wood. He watches intently as he gathers his boots, holding his breath to be as clandestine as possible because she’d stop him if she woke up and saw him._

_But he makes it out into the hall, shoes in hand and looks down both stretches, hearing snoring come from Rowan’s room, Emily mumbling in hers, and he hears you shifting around in bed, probably too hot and kicking off the blankets._

_He tip-toes down the stairs, ears straining, footsteps light, and shuffles toward the front door, glaring at Duke when the dog perks his ears and stares at him._

_It’s golden outside, sunlight filtering through fog and dew, and lingering clouds, and he breathes deep relishing the nip in the air. He slips his shoes on at the top of the steps, leaves the laces untied, and hops down, crunching frosted grass under his soles._

_He shakes his head, bright blond hair flaring and flapping, and then drags both hands through it, sweeps it behind his ears and walks on toward the field, a smiling pulling his lips._

_He hardly ever gets left alone, his sister watches him like she expects him to just disappear into thin air, and she’s got everyone else convinced of the same thing. He can’t so much as sneeze without someone running around a corner with a gun drawn and a worried ‘You ok?’ spilling from their mouth._

_Yeah, the world had gone crazy in the blink of an eye, and people were less than civilized, survival dictated that, but…_

_It wasn’t like he had a target on his back, he could go for a walk on his own, or sit on the porch and watch fireflies blink around the dark yard. He wasn’t going to spontaneously combust the second he was out of everyone’s sight._

_He kicks a stone, hands in pockets as he mopes._

_He’d probably be in a lot of trouble when he got back to the house, but he didn’t care at the moment because it was peaceful, and it was calm, and it was beautiful. And it felt like before. Before the world lost its shit and decided it didn’t want to be a thing anymore._

_The field is empty, as time would have it, the end of the world happened after harvest and no one had planted since then, so it’s just weeds, some grass._

_He pulls himself up on the fence, handmade, and lets his legs dangle as he sits and watches the sunrise. He doesn’t even squint when it hits him square in the face, blinding him. It makes it easier to pretend the world isn’t so ugly._

_“So, kid, you know we can’t get you glasses if your vision goes bad?”_

_He closes his eyes with a flat smile. Of course you found him, you always do._

_“Probably not a good idea to stare straight at the sun, that hasn’t changed since the world ended, just so you know.” He doesn’t invite you, but you hop up on the fence with him all the same._

_“Nothing worth looking at anyway,” he scoffs, scoots as you situate yourself beside him._

_“Mmm, I don’t know. This is kind of nice,” you say, and he looks at you, dead-panning because you just said- “If you squint. It’s nice if you squint.” You clarify, catching the smart-aleck look on his face._

_“What are you doing out here, Y/N?” he asks, sounding accusatory with hot air and flat consonants._

_You tut, roll your eyes. “Hey, who says I don’t need to escape every now and again, huh?” you counter, smile tugged tight with anguish, and he looks away._

_Right. He forgot. You lost your parents too, pretty soon after people discovered it was every man for himself. That was something you had in common, another was that you two were the youngest in the group._

_Rowan was the oldest, 25 and Emily came in second behind him: 23. His sister was 20 and you were 17. That made him the baby of the group at 13, still innocent and helpless and doe-eyed. Least, according to everyone else._

_“Doesn’t seem far enough,” he remarks, amber eyes narrowed against rays of sunlight that shine his hair brighter, like gold. You hum at him, drum your fingers on the fence and he suddenly smiles, almost as bright as the sun in front of you. “To escape.” He explains, and slips down on the other side with mischief in his expression._

_“Come on, Y/N, if we’re gonna escape, let’s get somewhere while we do it.” He grins lop-sidedly, perfect teeth flashing and you idly think about how lucky he is that his teeth came in straight and he didn’t have to go through braces like you did._

_He holds his hand out to you and you only hesitate a second before taking it and jumping down. He laughs, and tugs you after him through the field, the ground hard from frost and lack of rain. He’s younger than you and already taller, only by a couple inches, but still, he pulls you like you’re the child._

_The chilly air stings your cheeks and makes your eyes water, but he’s laughing, and so excited, so vibrant that you forget about it. His blond hair bounces, curly thick tendrils flouncing with every step and you find yourself grinning._

_He needs a haircut, you think, before he laces his fingers between your own and pulls you next to him, forcing you to match his strides so you can run side by side. You laugh breathlessly, sucking down frosty air and the scent of earth, dirt and wood and grass, a tinge of something that stings, maybe wild onion._

_You break through the field and cut into tall grass still soaked with dew. The blades slap and cling to your jeans as you run, and your shoes become wet quick. The woods is dryer, trees giving cover, and you don’t have to high-knee through here._

_Jace slows to a walk, breath bursting from his nostrils and you don’t sound much better. “You feel like you made it yet?” he asks you, guiding you over a toppled tree with his hand still in yours._

_“Made it?” you question, glancing around at the dark green foliage, listening to bugs screech and buzz because you and Jace have disturbed them._

_“Do you still feel like you need to escape?” he plucks a leaf off a nearby bush, twirls around on its short stem._

_“Pssh. All the time.” You reply sarcastically and he nudges you with your interlocked hands, clicking his tongue._

_“Well, come on. I know a place.” He says, and starts off faster, not jogging, but he isn’t walking anymore. Wherever he’s going, he seems keen to get there, certain somehow that it’s going to do wonders._

_“Ok, so then- you sneak out a lot more than I thought you did.” You think out loud and he hums in agreement, not denying. He’s got random leaves in his hood, a few pieces of bark, and a ladybug on his shoulder._

_It’s quiet further in the forest, peaceful, but it’s also, encompassing. The silence settles thickly, it feels like you’re in a different world. It’s hard to tell that the world is over deep in the heart of the woods where life continues on as it always has. The trees don’t know that the cities are out of power. The rocks have no idea that the government has fallen._

_The bushes have no clue that people are being butchered and slaughtered for a can of peaches or corn. Rabbits are unaware that children are the new prey in this world._

_That thought has you reaching behind you to feel for the gun in the waistband of your pants, finding comfort in the familiar weight and cold of the metal there. Jace has a knife in his boot, brass knuckles in his pocket, but a gun is just more effective. Quin won’t let him shoot one yet, thinks it would be more dangerous to let him have one than not…_

_You don’t agree, especially now that you’ve found out he’s been making these morning excursions more frequently than you thought._

_He pulls you, gently, an undercurrent of impatience and anticipation in his squeezing fingers, and you keep an ear on him, an ear on the area. The grass and bushes are getting thicker, the weeds taller, deeper green with nutrition and life. There’s a rushing sound, a slight roar beyond a wall of plants that you recognize as water. It bounces and reverberates, fractures by the time it reaches you, playing on a loop of hisses and slaps, dull splatters and splashes._

_He peeks over his shoulder at you, grins furtively and you return it slowly, curious. He brushes leaves and branches away, holds them for you and you duck and sidle next to him, feeling dirt give way to stone under your feet._

_All at once, it’s louder, the water gushing and growling and roaring at you, bouncing off the walls of the cove it empties into. The waterfall itself is pristine, light blue at the edge of the cliff, tinged with a bit of darkness from shadows of the rock as it falls. Then it’s foamy white and broad, roiling and jumping as it hits the still waters below, mist flying and curling back up towards the cliff._

_You’re on the other side, caddy-corner from the waterfall on brown jagged rocks that jut and dip as the wall leads down to the water below. It laps at the wall lazily, it looks like it’s patting the wall, giving it a high-five before it rolls out back into dark blue, sometimes grey water._

_“Holy crap.” You say, mouth a small ‘o’, and Jace snickers next to you. You ignore him and lean forward a bit, seeing if there’s a way down the wall. “Can we get down there?” you wonder aloud, and he chuckles next to you, tugging you back because you’re worrying him with the way you’re peering over the edge._

_“Can we get down there, she says,” he slips past you, untangles his hand and you hardly notice, still enraptured. But you do notice when he grabs your other hand, his grip tighter: you’ll have to walk along the edge, and it’s a hard way down._

_“Careful.” He warns you with a squeeze of his hand, and you follow him close, footing unsure, so you grab onto his hood. He notices. “Oh, great. So, if you fall, you’ll choke me while you do it. Thanks.” He’s teasing but you bite all the same._

_“Shut up. It’ll be your fault, Mr. Let’s Escape Life.” You snip, grimace when loose rocks roll under your sneakers, and slip your hand closer up on his shoulder._

_He laughs, guides your hand to his waist so you can grab a belt loop, and begins moving branches, thorn bushes out of your way. “How am I doing so far?”_

_“Well,” you peer sideways at the steep fall and feel your stomach drop. “Now I’m not so worried about being shot.”_

_He scoffs, the sound laden with humor. “You’re not going to fall, don’t worry. I won’t let you.” He says, and as if to prove it, he lays his hand over yours again, slightly chilly from the cold, but larger than your own._

_“Yeah, you’d have a lot of explaining to do, wouldn’t you?” you quip, and he stops, at first you think he’s going give you full-throttle sass, but he only hops down off a small ledge, and looks up at you, face level with your feet._

_“Not really, I’d just tell them you got kidnapped or something.” He shrugs, grins at your un-ladylike snort and steps back. “Come on,” he beckons with a hand._

_You narrow your eyes, sweeping along the ledge with skepticism. When he huffs, you wave your hand at him and sit down, ignoring how frigid the rock is and scoot forward. Your legs dangle over, and you hesitate. It looks slippery where he’s standing._

_“Come on.” He says again, and now he’s got his hands out, arms stretched toward you, his jacket riding up on his arms, revealing veiny wrists._

_“What, you’re gonna catch me?” you snark, and he scowls._

_“Just- get your ass down here.” He pats your legs impatiently, and you give in, sliding closer to the edge. He nods at you once in reassurance when you pause, and you fist the fabric of his jacket on his shoulders. Then he gets his hands on your waist and basically pulls you off the ledge, surprising a squeak out of you._

_He stumbles back half a step, digs his heels in, and holds his air in when you collide with him. Your feet hit the wet stone, and he’s already talking, strained against breath he forced to stay. “See, you’re fine.”_

_“Whatever, let’s just go.” You reply, and he rolls his eyes, turning on his heel._

_“What, no thank you?” Stones are stacked by nature the rest of the way down and offer steps of sorts, he hops down them, hands in jacket pockets._

_“No, so get over it.” You joke and follow him, arms out for balance until you hit bedrock, little pebbles and sand clicking and squishing under your feet. He blows a sigh through his mouth, cheeks puffed and starts off towards the cove, hanging close to the cliff wall._

_“Watch yourself, you’ll get your shoes soaked.” He tells you, pointing uselessly at water you can clearly see._

_“Already are.” You say, and jog to catch up, cursing his lanky limbs. The last couple of years the kid has shot up like a weed, and he didn’t seem to be stopping anytime soon. He’s gonna be a real catch when puberty gets done with him, you muse._

_He’s already mature and smart, maybe a little sarcastic, but the apocalypse will do that to a kid. He’s honestly more responsible than you are, better rounded, untouchable. He was an emotional rock, you don’t think you’ve ever seen him break down._

_You know he’ll make it. This world won’t take him, it’s no match for him._

_There’s a little bit of water on the stone where you’re walking, but it doesn’t go past the rubber lining of your Chuck Taylors, and he’s wearing leather boots so he doesn’t have anything to worry about. He’s talking, but you’re too busy watching silver reflections of water bounce and ebb along the walls like strands of silk in the wind. And the sound of waves lapping and kissing the walls overtakes his voice easily._

_You run your fingers along a slippery wall, droplets clinging to smooth stone, rivulets of water running down bowed stone and cracks in slate. There are a couple slugs dotting spaces, crawling leisurely and you take your hand away with a frown._

_“So, what do you think?”_

_You blink, gaze snapping to Jace, finding him watching you expectantly, amber eyes amused. “About what?” you say, wiping your wet hands on your jeans._

_He rolls his eyes. “The weather.” He quirks an eyebrow at you, the angle sharp because his eyebrows are basically straight. “This place, you idiot. What do you think about this place?”_

_“Oh.” You wonder where to start. You honestly hadn’t seen anything like it before. You had grown up in a big city, bustling cars, loud people, flashy stores, and heavy air to name a few of the aesthetics. “It’s…unbelievable.” You settle for the truth._

_He smiles, boyish glee peeking through. “Alright. Come’re.” he says with a jerk of his head before he’s disappearing around a bend in the wall. You follow slowly, cautious, and don’t even hear him because the waterfall echoes like no other in here, you’re pretty sure the vibrations have taken over your pulse._

_You dip and slide around the corner, hand on the wall and see him further in behind a cluster of rocks, bent over and shuffling around, his blond hair a stark contrast to the dark brown and grey of the cove rocks._

_You squint with a smile, and pad closer, some suspicion in your gaze. He drops down to knee, and his shoulders roll with whatever it is he’s doing, and now you’re curious. So, you walk with some pep in your step._

_He stands before you reach him and beams at you, excited and careless, and waves his hand, flourishes it toward him, ‘come here’, the gesture says, so you do._

_You walk around the corner, and blink owlishly._

_There’s a blanket on the stone between two rises of rocks, and bottles with candle wax shoved in the necks, along with melted candles on shelves of rock. There are a few empty cans of fruit, some beer tins, and cigarette butts laying around._

_“What?” is all you can say, and he doesn’t seem perturbed at your lack luster response._

_“I found this a few months ago while I was out on a walk, and I don’t know, I like hanging out here.” He says, gesturing behind him while you step forward and look around._

_“So, this was all already here?” you wonder aloud, and he shrugs, sinking down on the blanket with a sigh. You wander along the edge, peering at the various things people have left behind. There’s a busted flashlight nestled in a crevice, an empty nail polish bottle, a shell necklace, random change, a few sticks of gum from who knows how long ago, and an empty bottle of lotion._

_“Hm.” You hum in interest, trailing fingertips, and Jace has gotten tired of you snooping and not appreciating._

_He reaches up, gets fingers in your belt loops and pulls you down with a, “Would you sit down?”. You squeal, and flounder._

_You grunt when you hit the blanket, and glare at him. This blanket wasn’t as thick as it looked. You swat at him, and he flashes a grin at you, white teeth bright in the darkness of the cove._

_He flops back and crosses his arms behind his head, still smiling, and you huff a sigh at him. You stare out into the pool, murky water shining and glinting with the rising sun bursting through the canopy of trees overhead._

_“Too bad it isn’t warm.” You muse, pulling your jacket closer around you._

_“What?” he asks behind you, rolling a couple of stones around his palm with slender fingers._

_“I was just- it’d be nice to go swimming.” You say, and smile at him. It had been a while, and last time you went was in a public pool with a bunch of screaming kids and tired parents…your parents._

_His hand is on your shoulder, and he’s sitting up beside you, concern warming the amber in his eyes to something almost like honey. “Hey,” you look at him, and he slowly forces a smile. “We’ll come back in the summer, with sunscreen and potato chips, and we’ll swim all day.” He promises, angling his eyebrows up in question._

_You want to say something like, maybe we won’t even be here when summer rolls around. Or, I could be dead by then, or any number of negative things, but he’s smiling so softly that all you can do is nod._

_“Yeah, yeah- we’ll be back.” You agree, and twitch a smile at him, one he buys. He squeezes your shoulder, and leans back on his forearms, staring up through the circular hole of the cliff. You do too, barely able to make out clouds drifting by, little snatches of white through the leaves that interrupt even smaller catches of azure blue._

_“Oh!” he bursts suddenly and you jump with a hand on your chest._

_You peer behind you as he searches around his pockets, patting and feeling. “What?” you turn slightly, knee brushing his thigh and he sits up._

_“I uh- I found this a while ago, when I first found this place and meant to give it to you-“ he babbles, and you notice one of his hands is closed._

_“But I forgot. So, um, here.” And he opens his hand, something dangling from his fingers that jingles._

_It’s a bracelet, black rope with little charms clasped to it. There’s a heart, a cute little bow, a peace sign, the Eiffel tower. The metal of the charms has tarnished a brass color, probably spent a lot of time in the water before Jace found it._

_“I know you like things like this, so…” he tapers off as you take it from him, turning and straightening the charms._

_You feel a smile stretch slowly on your lips, and look up at him. “Thank you, this is cute.” He shrugs, non-chalant and turns away while you try to put it on and smiles widely._

_When he tidies his facial features he looks at you again, struggling to put it on with one hand, and he snickers at you._

_“Shut up.” You snap, trying to stop the clasp from slipping away._

_“I got it,” he says and grabs both ends, linking them together. He twists it correctly on your wrist, fingertips warm against your chilly skin. “You’re kind of hopeless, you know that?” he chuckles._

_You slap at him, even as you smile and he cackles, hunching his shoulders against your half-hearted slaps. He twists suddenly and gets a hand on your waist, fingers squeezing and you squeal a laugh, trying to shove him away._

_But he pounces, hands relentless as they grip and tickle your sides, despite your pleas and attempts to get away. Your laughter echoes around the walls, and his follows perfectly. By the time he accepts your defeat, you’re crying tears of laughter, and your face is flushed, and his face hurts from smiling so much._

_He doesn’t mind though. He smiles all the time around you._

**BOOM**!

He snaps awake, shooting upright, eyes wide even though it’s pitch black and he listens. Someone screams in the distance, and he grits his teeth in silence, knowing what’s coming.

 **BOOM**!

It’s quiet for a moment. Until hinges screech against rust, and boots thump down the hallway, echoing with scratchy shuffles. He rakes a hand through his hair, fingers tugging on knots he yanks out. It’s already dark, but he closes his eyes anyway.

It’s easier to see you that way. Your face flashes in his mind, and he manages to smile, just a little, even as his door squeaks open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, that flashback though...Well, at least we know he's alive, right? That's something. Now, you also know I am garbage. My poor OCs, I swear. Take it easy loveli-  
> Let me know if you guys want anything specific from this story, yeah? Because I've got a good idea where it's going, but I'd love to see what you guys have in mind, and try to work some things in. Just- talk to me! #totallynotstarvedforattention  
> Anyway. Take it easy lovelies, life is rough.


	6. This Church Will Never Be The Same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What, did you think everything would be hunky-dory when you woke up? Hell no. They needed that book, and they'd figure out where it was by whatever means necessary. At least, Dean would. He'd cross lines. He will. He does.

You remember why you don’t let yourself sleep. You can hear his laughter echoing in your ears, rich and happy, and so carefree that your heart stutters sadly. You wonder if the water looks the same since the last time you were there.

Murmured voices break past your sleep muddled state, low and deep, masculine. And it all comes crashing back into you. All of it.

Your head feels heavy, like someone poured cement in your ears while you were unconscious and your jaw is unnaturally stiff, locked tight at one of the joints in flaming pressure. Your cheek throbs with your pulse, pushing pain across your temple and swelled eye.

There’s a faint after taste of iron on your tongue, and you don’t even make the mistake of dragging it around your mouth, it’s too dry anyway.

Your side is cold, and numb, and you’re resting on something unforgivable and comfortless. You squeeze your eyes, breathe in through your nose and catch staleness, scentless oxygen.

Someone clears their throat, close, and you peel your one good eye open, and get boots in the fore-front of your vision.

You know those boots. You flicker your gaze up, dragging through exhaustion and unwelcome memories to look at him.

He has his hands in his pockets, shoulders limp, much like his expression, and if you weren’t so tired you’d scoff. He’s so relaxed, like he didn’t punch you unconscious hours ago on a road in the middle of nowhere.

You blink your question up at him, _What the fuck do you want?_

He twitches a frown, gets right to the heart of this situation. “Where is it?”

You swallow while he talks and waits, pulling yourself into a sitting position, legs crossed and look at him. He inches stiffer the longer you’re verbally silent, mostly in his face, and yeah, maybe you should be worried because he punched the shit out of you without a care in the world, but you’re mostly angry because-

He punched the shit out of you without a care in the world.

You glance around, behind his legs blocking most of your vision, and see Sam and Castiel further across the room, sitting in a rickety pew, conversing softly. You balk as good as you can, not believing that they’d let Dean within 40 feet of you after what he did. Then again, maybe they don’t care.

Probably be safer for you to assume they don’t care about your health.

“Well?” he grits, already at 100 and you try not to look at him too fast.

If it didn’t hurt, you’d smile sweetly, but all you can manage for yourself is to shrug your shoulders. His mouth pinches, eyes narrowing, and watch him measure distance, contemplate something you don’t understand, and then he’s nodding at the wall, decided.

You mentally brace, slivers of adrenaline easing the pain in your face, and the sting of your wrists which have been duct-taped together.

But, he turns on his heel and stomps over to the other two, his footsteps giving you an inkling of just how angry he is. Dust billows under his boots, and you’re pretty sure you can hear floorboards vibrate against one another.

You finagle your wrists, wiggle your toes in your sneakers, and wonder where your jacket went because cold air nips at your arms. They all three inch closer together as they discuss whatever, throwing glances and gestures in your direction that has your flight-or-flight response ready and blinking.

You look around a bit, hoping to find something like broken glass or even a stray nail nearby to cut through this duct-tape. But there’s nothing and you settle back against the pulpit of the altar. You humor yourself with thoughts of praying for divine intervention.

A pew creaks, grates on the floor, and you look over, finding Dean gripping the armrest of one, forearm flexed, outstretched. Sam and Castiel seem anxious, reluctant, and won’t so much as protest against whatever it is Dean just threw a tiny tantrum about.

But when they stumble their gazes to you, you see resignation in their eyes, and stark remorse. Sam seems almost devastated, sick, and you really don’t like that it’s you he’s aiming these emotions at. Castiel just seems softer all around with pity and regret.

You bristle, wondering what was just decided upon, and get a full picture when Dean turns.

He looks taller somehow, even from across the room, and his eyes are shades darker, just like the rest of him. Something sinister clings to the air around him, demands caution on your part when he walks back, slow and deliberate.

You sit straighter, tighten your focus when he squats next to you, too calm for your nerves to settle.

“Where is it?” he asks again, patient and quiet with gentleness that has you bristling in suspicion. You think…

That book is the one thing that’ll save Jace, your one bargaining chip. And even if you die here, the book will be safe. Rowan will find Jace if you don’t. You’re sure that he’s looking for the kid right now. But you can tell, watching hostility and poison dance around his forest-greens…he’ll take you to the brink of death. He will.

You close your eye.

_Rest in peace, you had a good run._

And open it.

_Now go to your funeral._

He knows, without any words between you, without you moving or shifting your gaze. He knows.

His features rise and fall with disappointment, maybe regret if you’re trying to go out hopeful, and he stands with an exhale.

Then he snags an arm and hauls you to your feet, grip hard and fingers mean, and shoves you forward off the side of the altar. You stumble even though it’s only about 4 inches tall, and don’t bother retaliating. You don’t need a prologue to this short story.

A large hand finds the back of your neck, calloused and rough and giving no inch as pressure is applied to coral you towards a door in the back, nestled in a corner next to the risers where people used to sing. Probably a prayer room, maybe an office.

Far too soon, you’re shoved in, tripping over your own feet and Dean’s on your heels, kicking the door shut. You take quick stock of the room.

It’s pretty much empty aside from a simple desk in the center, littered with yellowed paper and assorted pens. There are filing cabinets in one corner, metal and coated in dust, rust peppering the edges and handles. Along the wall to the left of the desk is an old-fashioned couch, soft green, muted from stale air and neglect. The cushions look flatter than pancakes, and the paint on the wood frame of the back and armrests is flaking.

You hear a click behind you and whirl, Dean smiles, makes a small show of the key from the door going into the breast pocket of his shirt, and you try not to react about how dramatic he’s being.

There’s a second between you where he thinks, still and relaxed, mind close but not present, and you reel, crawl through a place in your memory where you can find blood and gunfire, and mayhem. Something to steel you.

And then he snaps, that link in his chain fallen into place, and steps up to bat. One, two steps, and he’s there basically on your toes.

He doesn’t bother asking you, he knows, you know you won’t give him an answer. You barely see him move, barely hear it, but you feel it. Faster than a flash, his hand is on your throat and then he’s slamming you onto that desk, edges digging into your forearms as your head bounces on the wood.

The motion unlocks your jaw, jolts the joint loose and you find your voice, only for it to get trapped inside your mouth because that hand slips up to hold your jaw, bolt and corner and joint where it meets your ear, and it’s a tight hold that has your bruises weeping and your bones aching.

A garbled groan curves around your tongue, kisses your teeth and you squint in weak protest. You curl you fingers into your palms, nails digging with a stinging bite harsh enough to pull your attention away.

“Looks like I loosened you up, huh? I was beginning to wonder if you went mute on me, kid.”

_Don’t call me kid,_ you think. And then scoff at yourself because you’re about be tortured and you’re getting pissy over what he calls you.

His fingers squeeze stronger than perhaps should be possible and your vision blurs. “But you’re gonna answer my questions when I ask, right?” he purrs, nodding your head for you, and he’s smiling. Fucking smiling.

You glare as best you can, but it’s difficult to do with one eye and most of your motion held captive by the large man curved over your form. He wedges in, pins you with his stomach on your waist, and he eases his grip on your jaw, testing.

You cautiously move it, feeling pressure and bold throbbing from your chin to the back of your skull. He lets you fiddle with your features for a moment and then speaks.

“Where’s the book, Y/N?” you suck in a quick breath, one that hisses against sore gums and sensitive teeth and you talk,

“I can’t.” you tell him, and he lets his grip slide away to lay that palm flat on the desk next to your head.

“Can’t or won’t?” he inquires, watches you blink and press your chapped lips into each other.

“Both.” You reply, swallowing numbly. Your lips are so dry and so is your throat. You can’t remember the last time you had something to drink, let alone to eat. Let’s not get started on sleeping. Maybe that’s why you’re not a puddle of girl, yet? You’re so detached from lack of sleep and nutrition.

He finds that’s your most honest answer, you’re not feeding him bullshit at least. But you’re not giving him what he wants.

He shrugs a little, _oh well,_ and mutters. “You will.” Suddenly, you’re cracked with the back of his hand, the hit stronger with the leverage he has next to your head.

Your vision goes blank with the pain, and you bark out a curse around the tang of blood in your mouth. “Fuck!” You’ve just rolled your head back, expecting him to question you again, instead you’re treated to déjà vu because he slaps you once more.

Blood flies this time, and you’re almost certain the ‘pop!’ you hear is from your jaw. Pain drills into the center of your head, blooming and stretching with iron-stiff twine. You swallow back the groan in your mouth, along with the blood and try to decide whether leaving your jaw slack or closing it tight hurts more.

You hear a dull click breach your pain bubble, and blink with a stiff cornered lid. Something cold touches your jaw and Dean talks again, like you actually give a shit about what he’s saying.

“You know, kid,” - _Don’t call me kid-_ “we need you alive, so, you don’t hafta worry about me killing you,” you can feel him smiling, his words light with humor, maybe a little glee, and you’re starting to wish you had listened to Rowan.

“But we don’t exactly need you in one, whole piece.” He explains slowly, and when you don’t respond, he’s pressing that cold object to your other cheek. You see it flash silver, and better feel its sharp edge when he uses its flat side to turn your head.

Jesus, he better not be thinking about gouging your eye out or something. Fucking-

He looks so calm and laid-back, contented, like he’s waiting to be served to a three-course meal and he just got done with the appetizer.

“The Hell is wrong wi’ you?” you manage to spit out, and his expression twitches, amused. You’re not so stoic anymore though. Like you should be, you’re worried.

He chuckles, flips the knife, runs the edge down your battered jaw and you can feel it sting, nip teasingly. “This and that.” And it breaks skin with a quick press that holds, only because he’s got his other hand on your throat.

You hiss, on both an inhale and an exhale as he drags it down. You gasp when the edge digs deeper, harsher, your resolve weakening with the warmth that trails down your jaw and the side of your neck.

“Just tell me where it is,” he murmurs distractedly, trailing the knife. “That’s all you gotta do.”

It isn’t lost on you that he needs that book, but he just said he needed you too. That book wasn’t your ticket to safety, you’re not sure what he’s trying to convince you of.

“If I do, then what?” you clip, trying to keep your words small, your jaw close.

He pauses, drags his gaze up to the wall, thinking as he back-and-forths his eyes along the pictures hanging there. Then he looks down at you, a proposition in his eyes that looks more like a sentence. “I won’t break you.”

You huff out a sour laugh, tinged with disbelief. How did this even happen? Before the world went crazy you were planning on going to college to get a degree in Music Arts, or English Literature. Here you were, two years later in a ramshackle church in the boonies of South Carolina, bound and held hostage by a mentally unstable-

“What’s it gonna be, babe?” he tuts, dragging the bloody knife through some loose locks of your hair, bored. You almost want to snap at him, but you’ve got bigger problems than bloody hair.

“Lemme take a rain-check.”

If he wasn’t so irritated, he’d be impressed with your guts. As it is…

He slams the knife into the wood next to your head, and you instinctively flinch away. “You know,” _-God, why does he have to talk so much?-_ “I’ll give ya’ credit, you’ve got a pretty high pain threshold.”

_Oh, thank you very much, you know how to flatter a girl._

“But I’ve gotta wonder,” you feel him shift against you, and something in his tone has your mind prickling, your focus narrowing. Rightfully so because he wedges in, forces your thighs apart with his own legs and you officially label stealing from Dean Winchester as the worst decision of your life. “Just how high your other tolerances are.”

_What?_ Your mind brakes, digs its heels in while you decide about turning the wheel or not. _There’s no way he’s serious._

But when a big hand finds your thigh and hikes it up on his waist you realize he’s dead-fucking serious. And he sees the minute it dawns on you, and he grins, oh, he grins with full teeth and crinkled eyes.

You swallow back fear in a nauseous roll of tongue and throat muscles, but you can’t do anything for the bold horror that makes your muscles shudder. He squeezes the softness of your thigh with all his strength and then leans into you, far too much contact for your liking and tries one last time.

“Where’d you hide it, Y/N?” his voice is quiet, bordering gentle and all you can think is that he’s pulling wool over his fur and jaws. Because you know better.

Your shoulders and chest shake, little jitters that give you away, but you drag a breath, look him in the eye and say, “You do what you have to.”

He stares at you for a moment, eyes paused with temporary surprise, and then his lip curls and he clicks his tongue. Little do you know that Dean is resigning himself to Hell in that moment, because bending you over a desk and slamming you face-first into the wood is the last thing he wants. But he does it anyway, all while pretending he doesn’t see your shoulders quivering, or the blood running down your palms because you’ve dug your nails into them so sharp.

He also ignores the way that you go limp, and let him kick your feet apart. He wonders why the hell you’re protecting this book so adamantly. There’s no way you knew what to do with it, so what purpose did it serve you?

He drapes himself over you, with pressure and heat that has you cringing into the desk. He hums along your shoulder, a contemplative sound, and grabs at your hips to hold you still while he rubs himself against you. It’s jeans against jeans, but the motion is so threatening, the warmth so present, and the contact so hard you forcibly close your throat around a hiccup.

Then he blows a breath along the back of your neck, and sighs. They’re quiet words, soft and pliant but you hear them, and they sound so scary just for what they are.

“Been so long…” and then you do bubble out a little sob.

“Shh…” he soothes uselessly, hands trailing around and down to pop the button of your jeans. “Sh. We’ll go slow.” He murmurs like it’s some sort of comfort and you don’t even feel the pain in your jaw or your hands with all the fear running in your veins.

He inches, stretches his hand past the smoothness of your lower stomach and you’ve got nowhere to go, trapped as he reaches and cups your dry heat with a calloused hand that promises pain. You choke on air, pointless pleas rolling around your head, and you’re so scared you don’t even realize you’ve started crying.

Silent tears, though, because breathing would require moving. And if you went long enough without breathing, you’d just pass out. At the moment though, you were quite awake.

You were awake to feel his rough fingers run through your uninterested folds with unabashed interest on his part. This isn’t the way you thought your week would pan out, hell, you never thought that at some point in your life you’d consent to rape. But as a character from a movie once so eloquently put: “Every man has a price which he will willingly accept. Even for that which he never wanted to sell.”

You bite on your raw lip hard enough to get it bleeding again, anything to take your focus away from the thick, probing fingers at your entrance, just sliding, fingertips brushing, dipping with sickening tease. But it doesn’t help, doesn’t help distract you when they starting pushing, curling, into you, and it certainly doesn’t help the watery sob that bursts past your lips.

He hums, shushing you ineffectively. “Relax. It’ll be easier.”

_The fuck kinda advice was that?!_

The burn, the unwelcome stretch, the blatant intrusion increases as he delves deeper, and he sighs even as you hitch a breath at the sting. Then he twists his savage digits inside you and you grit out a whimper, teeth grinding so hard your temples throb.

His fingers leave you momentarily, the two of them, and then he’s paused, listening to you hiss air and slice sobs down to quiet bursts of air. But then he puts three at your opening, waiting. What for you don’t know.

And you never find out, because loud knocking sounds at the door, a heavy fist banging on the flimsy wood. It startles you enough to jump, wincing when his fingers catch at your entrance, but he doesn’t  move, not one centimeter.

“Dean!” it’s Sam, and he’s urgent, frantic and a little worried. “Dean, we’ve got something. I know who has it!” he calls, his voice pleading, hoping.

Dean holds for a moment, some unknown purpose giving him pause and you don’t know it’s regret because you can’t see his face. Then he’s slithering away, suddenly gone, all that contact and human heat vanished.

“Looks like you caught a lucky break.” He says, and you don’t respond, but flinch when he gets a hand around your arm to pull you upright and standing.

_A lucky break._

You’ve got your eye closed, has been since he slammed the side of your head down on the wood, and it’s been leaking steady tears longer than you’ve been aware. Makes it easier for him, if you don’t see his face you won’t know…

He steps close, despite every fiber of his being screaming at him to get the Hell away from you, and re-does your jeans. He ignores the way you flinch, the tears that come faster, he especially ignores the stains on his shirt from where your hands pressed into him when he was leaned over you.

He stomps towards the door, not answering his brother’s concerned calls of his name, and unlocks the door. He doesn’t wait for Sam to talk to him, doesn’t wait long enough for his expression to alter before he’s out into the sanctuary of the church.

Sam doesn’t look at him though, he’s fixated on you; standing in the middle of the room, leaning back on a desk, silently crying. But, you’re barely roughed up, you look about the same as you did against the pulpit and he wonders what happened, because you weren’t giving up shit back then. Now, you seem like you went through the wringer, and Sam knows that’s not the case because physical pain didn’t mean much to you.

He barely feels the words leave his mouth,

“Jesus Christ, Dean. What did you do?”

But he does feel the way his stomach turns when you hit the ground, hiccups pouring out of you.

“What did you do?” he says again, much quieter, and no one answers him, because everybody’s too busy listening to you have a good cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have nothing to say. It's two in the morning and I'm dead. I'm shooting for the next chapter to be up in a week. Good night, lovelies.


	7. Rowan Trescott Deserves A Cape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He blames himself, mostly. Most of what's happened could be laid at his feet because of his docile nature. He should've kept you safe no matter what, no questions, if ands or buts about it. But he wanted to believe that morality could survive the end of days, he wanted to believe he could hold onto his own. Well, no more. He wouldn't lose anything else. He'd get you back, he'd find Jace, HE would go looking for Emily.

“This is crazy. This is goddamned crazy.” Rowan mutters as he bustles around, throwing things in a duffle bag. Food, water, first-aid, a knife, a couple pistols, a hand-axe. Duke watches him in curiosity, ears perked and head tilted as Rowan darts along the room, picking up this and that, putting it back, stopping in the middle of the room to think, and then shooting off again.

He'd never seen his master so excited and active. Was something wrong with him? He barks, and Rowan doesn’t look at him as he tears into the closet in the living room and drags a chest down off a shelf.

He trots over, the scent unfamiliar. He’d never seen this container before. He’d never seen inside of the closet either, but this was different.

Rowan fiddles with the lock, twisting the combination and it clicks. He pinches the bridge of his nose, heaving a breath before he throws the lid back. Inside, at the bottom of the chest is a book, no bigger than a standard bible, leather-bound and pitch black. Along the spine are symbols, runes that Rowan had never once come across in his life. He couldn’t match any of them to a language. He was sure it wasn’t anything real.

Then again, you’d been asked to specifically steal this from the Winchesters, so there had to be something about it.

He hisses, falls back on his heels as the revelation hits him afresh. Kidnapped. Captured. By the Winchesters.

He presses his fingers to his closed eyelids and swallows hard. He should’ve tried harder to convince you to stay behind. But you were sure just having Emily searching for him wouldn’t be enough, and he’d argued, argued until you’d given him that look…and he let you fucking go.

In little over a month, his dysfunctional, crazy, quirky family had been destroyed. Everybody gone in the blink of an eye, and he didn’t do jack. It wasn’t that he was unwilling or even scared. He wasn’t. He’d done a lot of unsavory things before the world itself went unsavory. It was more like, he was convinced he wasn’t needed to do these nitty-gritty things.

He was qualified to be the computer nerd, the laid-back leader. The bright and spunky Aussie stuck in glum, dead America. His identity had changed when the world ended, he had a fresh start to be something different. Something better.

But, it had cost him. It had cost him everything, and he didn’t know he wasn’t willing to pay the price until he had to ask ‘How much?’. He could fix it though, he could be that man again. The one with blood on his hands and a free conscience. Because his hands were clean, but his mind was a battlefield.

He’d get you back. No matter what it took. He’d make other people pay the price, make them ask ‘How much?’ and tell them they don’t have enough. He’d be whatever it took to save you, his own life be damned.

He snatches the book up, grip tight and hard to the point of numbing his fingers. He’d go to this church. He’d get you back, and leave them with nothing.

He can remember it, like a movie on loop because the carnage he wreaked was so common and frequent that it all ran together like paint on a palette, unrecognizable but so familiar that he could never mistake it for something else. They weren’t nightmares, they were warnings, they were reminders, they were subconscious snippets of advice. They were tools, tools that he replaced with keyboards and late night phone-calls, of long hours in uncomfortable chairs.

They were things he couldn’t outrun. They were who he is.

And the monster that he is, is your salvation.

He drops the book into his duffle bag with tasteless dismissal. As he hefts it onto his shoulder, Duke stands and stares at him imploringly.

Rowan hardly notices anything. All he sees is red, all he tastes is iron, all he smells is the coppery tang of blood, and he’s still inside the house in the cool of the morning. And suddenly his conscience is clear, even as faces flash in his mind, dead eyes meeting his own, lightless and glassy.

He isn’t worried about his plan, he isn’t worried about what they’ll do to him if he fails because if he does, he doesn’t deserve to see another day. He’ll accept whatever happens to him, but only after you’ve been rescued.

You’re all he has left, and he’ll die to save you. You don’t deserve to pay for what he was convinced he didn’t need to do. You wouldn’t suffer as consequence of his idle hands.

He stops at the door, a hand on the knob and looks over his shoulder at his living room of the last 3 years. The ugly plaid couch, the dusty plasma tv over the fireplace mantle, the glass coffee table littered with chip packages, stray bullets and cigarette butts, the bookcase in the corner left of the door and he says goodbye.

He doesn’t say goodbye to Duke, he’s content to think he’ll see his dog again, and his dog is content to think he’ll see his master again. Everybody’s happy.

The door slams shut behind him, and the screen door bangs and creaks as he thunders down the steps, his duffle slapping the back of his knee.

Nothing quite registers in Rowan’s mind. Nothing breaks through the fog of his memories and the horrors he committed. He’s a free man, not condemned by his wrongdoings, but set free because of them. Everything’s fair game in the apocalypse, nothing’s off limits, there are no rules and nothing you do could you be punished for. Everyone’s on equal ground.

That ground is survival.

He knows what he’s walking into, or at least he thinks he does, and he knows he very well might not survive this encounter. I mean, they captured you for God’s sake. You were sharper than a tack and tougher than nails. You had survived on your own in the apocalypse for almost two years and travelled halfway across the country before you two met each other. The end of the world was nothing for you, you could take whatever it threw at you…same as Jace.

He spares a thought for Quin’s brother and Quin herself as he turns around the side of the house, heading for the shed in the back. He’s sure that Quin is agonizing wherever she is: Jace was her only blood relative left alive, he was really all she had left since their mother died shortly after all the madness took hold, and she had stopped at nothing trying to get him back. Death was the only thing that stopped her.

And then she asked you to get him back. That was thirteen days ago, and three months total since he had been gone, since you all were given an ultimatum. An ultimatum that cost Emily’s life- he was finally admitting to himself that she was probably dead wherever she was -your health and happiness, and his newfound morality.

It smells like sawdust and mold in the old shed, and it’s cold with the wind whistling through cracks in the wood, but he’s numb to it all. Light from outside falls in around his frame and glints off the dark red body of the sport bike he found in town a few weeks ago. He had always wanted one, but it was never quite practical before.

Now, it was more than appropriate. It was fast, fast enough that making a get-away wasn’t even something he had to worry about. They could chase him down in that old muscle car all they wanted but they wouldn’t be able to catch him.

Maybe after all of this was over and behind him, he’d teach you how to ride. It was faster than that car, more your size, and you never took a lot of things with you or came back with much. Yeah, he decides, after he gets you back and you heal up, he’ll teach you.

He pushes it all the way down the winding gravel driveway, crunching rocks and stray dead leaves under his wingtip boots. Chilly air bites at his face and tussles his copper hair playfully. Emily was supposed to cut it before she left…

He continues pushing until he’s well onto the road and the farmhouse is far over his shoulder, walks until his heels throb and his arms ache, and then he gets on. He’s got tunnel vision, everything condensed and stripped down to the road in front of him, the handles of his bike, the gauges. Nothing’s in his ears except roaring wind, and he can’t hear himself think, he can’t feel anything aside from the way that air slices him open.

Once upon a time, he’d appreciate the flat, wide landscape home to swaying bluegrass and stalwart oak trees, an occasional barn or woodshed out in the middle of nowhere. But today he doesn’t spare a glance, the only thing that matters is the road before him. The road that takes him to you.

He sees the church in the distance, small, rectangular and lonesome. The paint is peeling and he can see the grey wood beneath peeking out. The steeple roof is missing a few planks and the lightning rod is rusted and close to falling off.

The sign for the church is cracked and broken, the letters torn off, and the fence that surrounds the building is missing sections, posts and boards fallen over or broken in half. He remembers taking a few of them way back when; the three of you, him, you and Emily at the time had stayed a night in the church on your way to who knew where.

There was a small hill, a dip in the land behind the church and that was where you spent some of the day warming up by the fire and heating what little food you had. Rowan wouldn’t be surprised if they parked there because he doesn’t see the car anywhere.

He’s sitting, waiting on the other side of the road behind a broken down Volkswagen van, staring through the windows at the quiet and dilapidated religious gathering place. He had cut the engine on the bike about a mile back and pushed it the rest of the way, he didn’t want to let them know he was coming.

Best not to inform them that he had a vehicle. He was just a clueless, spineless, computer geek, nothing more.

He pulls his phone out, hits his speed dial and waits while it rings. He doesn’t have to wait long before someone answers. He tries to channel cowardice and fear.

“Yes?” It’s someone different from the other voices he’s heard, and Rowan hopes there aren’t more than three. This person sounds, agreeable, reasonable. Calmer definitely.

“I’m on my way. Bout ten minutes out.” Rowan lies with meekness, glaring across distance, attempting to conjure a face with this voice.

“…okay.” They say, and they sound tired, reluctant to talk. Too bad for them because Rowan isn’t done yet.

“I’d like to talk her,” Rowan says, and tries not to sound as demanding as he is.

There’s a pause where Rowan holds his breath and waits for something to happen, for someone to peer out the windows or poke their head out the door because paranoia is starting to seep in with the silence.

“I don’t think so.”

Rowan closes his eyes, reigns in his anger and responds, “Look, ya’ want this stupid book, ya’ lemme talk to her. Otherwise I take a hike,”

“You’d leave her?” they ask him, and they sound surprised and maybe even a little angry and Rowan squints. What the hell kind of kidnapper has compassion? One in the wrong profession.

“Until I hear her voice, she’s as good as dead in my mind, so I don’t ‘ave a reason to give ya’ anythin’, unless I have proof that she’s still alive.” He may have gotten a little pissy at the end, but hey, this was a negotiation. Things were bound to get somewhat tense.

Rowan hears hushed arguing after his demand, and he hears the one that made the terms hiss your name, growl something about a ritual, and then sneer something in a terrible Australian accent. He doesn’t like that one, he’s the least favorite of the kidnappers.

And then it goes quiet, quiet enough that Rowan checks to make sure they didn’t hang up. Seeing the timer climb puts him at ease, and he talks.

“Well, are ya’ gonna put her on or not?”

“…yeah. Alright.” The calmer one says, and Rowan decides he might not have to kill them. Not yet, anyway.

He about sags off his bike when your voice tumbles into his ear, ragged and tired, but you.

“The hell you doin’?”

Well, that wasn’t the hello he was expecting, but you never were predictable. “Savin’ yer ass. Yer welcome, no thanks needed.”

You don’t even sigh like he expects you to. “You listen bout as well as a wall.”

He smiles a little. “You’re welcome for that too,” he hears you huff, and it’s a relief to him; That’s there’s still a sliver of your humor, of your resilience. “I’ll see ya’ soon, Pip.”

“Bye, Zip.”

As soon they end the call, he hikes the duffle bag higher on his shoulder and starts toward the church, intent to finish everything today. He was the leader in your little rag-tag team of survivors and he was finally stepping up to act like it.

The hatchet he’s got inside his coat, the pistols tucked into the back of his pants, the knives in the side of his boots. He left the first-aid kit in the saddle bag of the motorcycle, along with the food and water.

The church looks worse up close, he’s surprised it’s still standing what with all the mold and water damage to the wood. It even looked like it might be leaning a little in one direction. The steps are rickety looking, the middle one is broken, snapped clean in half.

He’s glad he doesn’t wear heavy shoes because his footsteps would be much louder than they are, especially on old, dry wood.

He isn’t sure what to expect, but it definitely isn’t the three of them lounging around on the creaky pews like they don’t have a hostage negotiation to handle.

They all three jump up when the doors bang shut behind him, and he doesn’t do anything until there’re guns aimed at him. Just pistols. He wonders how good their aim is, or if they even have any bullets.

He holds his hands up. “Book delivery.”

They all look at each other, suspicious until the tallest one speaks up, and Rowan recognizes his voice as the one with patience. “I thought you said you were ten minutes out?”

Rowan shrugs. “I said I was about ten minutes away, my timing was a little off.” He says and drops his hands.

He walks down the aisle, dust cushioning his footfalls. “So which is which?” he asks, looking between the both of them.

“The Hell does that mean?” the shorter one shoots, already irritated and brusque.

That’s the one he doesn’t like. “Sam and Dean Winchester,” Rowan clarifies. “I know of ya’, but I don’t about ya’.” He stops mid-way, able to see the front of the church now, and you’re nowhere in sight. They probably have you in one of the rooms.

“Let’s keep it that way.” The one with green eyes growls, and lowers his gun.

Rowan remembers you telling him about- “Dean.”

Said Winchester glares, and Rowan smiles sarcastically. “She talked about ya’ a little. Said that you were asshole of the two of ya’…wasn’t wrong.” He doesn’t bother sharing the other part of what you said, the current situation kind of negated your claim about him being a good man.

Dean mutters something under his breath, turns around to hiss something at Sam and then steps back toward the pulpit. Giant Sam Winchester takes the helm.

“No, she _isn’t_ ,” Dean scowls at the back of Sam’s head, but his little brother continues. Rowan notices the change in verb tense. “You’ve had proof that she’s alive. Give us proof that you have the book.”

Rowan nods. Fair’s fair. He slowly unzips the duffle hanging at his hip and reaches inside. Dean’ watching like a hawk, grip tight and a little jumpy on his handgun. Sam on the other hand, is composed and patient but just as alert.

They breathe small sigh of relief when he pulls the book out. Something was finally going their way.

“Shall we, then?” Rowan asks with implication, throws a glace toward the far door in a guess, and lets his duffle slide off his shoulder.

Sam looks at Dean, a silent question that gets answered with a frown. Dean’s the one who stomps off toward the office.

“It’s Rowan, right?” that’s Sam.

“Yes.” He replies curtly, fixedly watching Dean open and slip through the door. He couldn’t even catch a glimpse of you.

“I have to ask: why her?”

Rowan snaps his gaze over to Sam, befuddled. “What?”

“She’s just a kid, and you sent her to-“

“I didn’t send her to do anything.” Rowan interrupts, his protectiveness sharpening his words to biting snaps. “I did everything I could to stop her; she gets something in her head- she does it.” He hates getting angry, it sucks the Australian right from his voice.

“Why would she think to do this?” Sam asks critically, curious and ample amounts of suspicious. “You don’t even know what this book is.” It’s not a question, Rowan understands that. He also understands to keep his mouth shut where it’s concerned.

_Because this stupid book is a bargaining chip. And it isn’t for her._

The other man in the room, the one that’s been quiet all this time shifts. He straightens in his stance and tilts his head.

_Right. He’s the strange one…_

“Rowan.”

At the sound of your voice, his nerves settle. But when he lays his eyes on you, his blood boils to the point of cooking his organs.

You face looks like a Van Gogh, colors muddied together and blending. There’s dried blood caked to your throat, and he doesn’t realize the pain in his hand is from him clenching his fist so hard he can feel bones tremble.

“You look like shit. How do you feel?” he asks you, and you openly balk at him.

_Jesus Christ, he’s using proper English and his accent is gone._

“Exactly how I look.” You reply, figuring it would be pointless to try and water it down. Dean snorts quietly behind you, nudges you forward with a little shove.

When you stand at the end of the aisle way, next to the first row of pews your heart sinks seeing the book in his hand. You knew he had it, but it was another thing entirely to see it and know that you were going to lose it.

Not only that, but Rowan had no idea they didn’t plan on giving you up. And you couldn’t tell him, it wouldn’t do any good now. He could try to run, but Castiel would catch him. And even if you could tell him, it wouldn’t do any good. He was here. What was he going to do, kill the three of them? Ha. Ha-ha ha.

“We meet half-way.” Rowan says, looking over your shoulder at Dean. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him look so serious, so focused.

It’s like a reverse of an 18th century gun duel because they walk to measured and precise, and you don’t bother to count but you’re pretty sure they take 10 steps. You take eleven with your smaller strides.

You’re two feet away from Rowan and it feels like you’re looking at a stranger. His face is full of hard lines and stiff sets, there’s nothing easy-going or relaxed about him now. Dean’s got a hold of one of your arms, still bound behind you in duct tape, and you know he doesn’t plan on letting you go.

There’s a second where both the men stare at each other in silence, in quiet challenge. And then Rowan breaks it as only Rowan can. With insulting sass.

“Your Australian accent is shit.” He holds out the book to Dean and you just about burst into tears on the spot.

Rowan knows, Rowan can see it. Dean doesn’t relax an inch when he offers the book. He’s still got a tight hold on you. He doesn’t care that the book is within his grasp, not completely, because he’s too busy making sure you stay right where you are.

They don’t plan on letting you walk out of here with him.

Too bad he plans on taking you with him anyway.

The exchange is made on Rowan’s end, and he’s left empty-handed. They communicate silently, coffee black eyes, and forest greens clashing wordlessly.

“You’re also shit at negotiations.” He says, and shifts his right arm, material of his jacket and coat giving way for the ace up his sleeve to slide into his hand. You’ve hardly a second to ask what the hell he’s doing before he winks at you, and light bursts bright enough to blind you.

It’s pandemonium after that, there’s yelling and cursing, and your retinas are weeping. Dean’s somewhere behind you growling and cussing up a storm, rubbing at his eyes.

And then your pulled along by the front of your shirt, rushed words hardly making it to your ears before you’re outside and cold. Your senses come back quick, quick enough that it rocks you momentarily dumb.

But your hands are cut free, and he grabs one of them, tugging you after him, practically dragging you with how tall he is. You want to ask about the book, but all you focus on is the cold air burning your lungs raw, and the distance you put behind you. That’s all you care at the moment.

He glances behind, at you, and you see guilt crush him before he plows forward. You wonder why the hell you’re running. They have the car. And you highly doubt you can work some kind of magic on the beat up Volkswagen you’re headed towards.

But he goes right past it and turns, and you thank your lucky stars that Rowan is as smart as he is. He doesn’t waste a second in hopping on, and you’re right after him, arms tight around his middle, forehead resting on his back.

Just before he turns the key, you hear the roar of the impala and squish closer, taking a second to breathe in his scent. He smells like salt, cigarette smoke, and the dish soap you all wash your clothes in.

That’s home to you now, this is as close as you can get. And you want one more moment. Just one.

You barely register the bike purring to life, or the lurch when he gives it gas. You don’t hear him tell you to hold on, because you already are. The wind whips and roars, but you breathe and hold on, oblivious to anything that isn’t immediately in your arms.

You’re okay with someone saving you for once. You are. He’s not half bad at it, you decide. Better than you. The Winchesters are chasing you in their car, and you don’t even care. You glance over your shoulder, something you’ve done for the last three years and probably will do for the rest of your life.

You can barely make out their faces, angry and furious and desperate and you don’t give a shit. You’re so tired.

You settle your chin over Rowan’s right shoulder and hedge closer, just so he can hear you over the roar of engines and energy of the wind.

“Thank you.” You say, and you mean it.

“Anytime, sweetheart.” He tells you, and you both know how much he means that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't proofread any of this, and it's later than I promised. But you all already know I'm garbage, so you shouldn't be surprised. I'll apologize anyway, though. I'm sorry. Next Chapter we'll finally meet Emily, kind of excited for you to meet her. Take it easy, lovelies. Life is rough.


	8. Emily Windgate Get's A Lesson In 'Chance'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paths cross, and paths are lost. Though neither of those instances can be painted as 'good' or 'bad' on their own. Maybe it'll all work out in the end, though? From here on out, it's just blind luck.

The city’s desolate, block by block, dotted only by trash and soot marks from fires, occasional blood stains on sidewalks or walls of buildings. Windows are gaping open, dark rectangles of shadow that stare out hauntingly from a distance, sometimes a curtain will flap out, peeking into the street before disappearing.

Signs have been graffitied, lamp posts knocked sideways, cars immobilized in the middle of the street, windows bashed in and frames molted from previous fires. Needless to say; but shop windows have been busted and some of the things behind the glass lay out in the street, broken and in scraps.

She stares out a mostly still there window on the third floor of an apartment complex, one gray-blue eye in her peripherals on a shard of glass clinging to the frame. She doesn’t know what she’s looking for, or rather, what she’s looking _out for_ , but she sweeps her gaze down the street, up and back like the stroke of a paint brush.

It’s quiet, quiet enough to put her on edge and wonder what happened to all the gunfire and noise and bloodlust she’d been dually chasing and hiding from for the past month. She glances behind her, at the empty room she’s resting in and listens hard for a moment, just to be sure.

Clouds pass, throwing shadows over the city and dying it grey, and she sighs. She leans back against the wall, adjusting the gun in her lap and watches northward.

Emily didn’t know why she was still out here, honestly speaking. She knew she was in over her head, this was too much of a job for one woman to handle and she’d been running on empty for a while now. But, maybe it’s force of habit that takes her across the state of South Carolina? She’s been at this so long that day has run into night and she hardly notices stars disappear anymore.

She had caught a lead in Rockhill, and it had led to another, which took her to Spartanburg where she’s been for last 4 days combing every block of the city, hoping to find affirmation. This was a dumb idea, in all seriousness. She didn’t know who she was dealing with or what they were packing, how many their number was but by default it was already larger than she could handle.

She sighs, drags a hand through her wheat colored hair and tries not to think of Rowan, how worried he probably is, and then she rubs at her eyes remembering you. You were most likely still out looking for him too.

That’s why she’s out here: because you are. And if she finds him first, then she can bring him back and you won’t have to search anymore. You can be safe, and he can be safe, and Rowan can calm down enough that maybe he won’t have premature grey hair.

Emily really regrets leaving her satellite phone at the house. _“A few days. And then I’ll come back. Soon as the battery dies, I’ll head home. Scout’s honor.”_ She had said to Rowan, rolling her eyes at the worry lines that crawled across his forehead.

She had intended on coming back. Really. But she kept finding leads, and feared if she left them then they would fade with time and distance and she’d lose her only chance at finding Jace. So, she hoped that Rowan would understand, and pushed on, feeling slightly guilty but excessively determined.

Course, her two good leads led her to here, and here was a whole bunch of nothing. But, hey, she’s gotta play the hand she’s been dealt, right? Right.

Emily rubs at her eyes, and groans long. Her eyelids feel glued to her cheeks, but she opens them anyway and stares down the length of the street below her, far too dully to catch anything, but…

She pauses, squints, stares a little harder. And takes off toward the door, swinging the strap of her gun around her shoulder. She tears down the hallway, stomping loud enough that if people still lived here, she’d be getting yelled at. The door to the roof is barely hanging onto its hinges, and she bounds up the few steps that lead to the flat expanse of the roof itself.

It’s cleaner up here, or maybe it’s just wide open sky at her fingertips that makes her think so, but she breathes easier, easy enough that she hardly notices the distance across the roof she has to run. The edge, the lip of the building reaches her ribcage and it’s a little awkward but she leans into it, hip and thigh and waist braced as she unravels her gun strap. Then she drops, mostly in her head and shoulders to find a good place to rest, a comfortable way to settle the butt of her gun into her right shoulder and peers through the scope.

There a couple of men walking down the street, ragged in nature but not so much appearance. Their clothes don’t look over worn, and they’re more or less clean-shaven. Passable for the apocalypse-because who was keeping score, exactly?

They have duffels slung over their shoulders, shoulders with some width and give, she notices. Well, it’s hit or miss with apocalypse: either you get super fit, or you get super skinny. Looks like they’re a couple of the lucky ones.

They’re talking to one another. No, that’s not right. They’re too angry for it to be talking. Arguing, Emily surmises, because their gestures and gait are just a bit too snappy, too intense. She adjusts the lens, zooms in on them, and sucks on her teeth.

Were this not the End Days, she’d be all over the both of them like LSD at Woodstock. Even under the few days scruff and thin layer of dirt, and the air of unknown danger that hangs about them she can clearly see how attractive they are…and see how much distance they’re covering.

_Gotta be at least 6ft,_ she guesses, measuring their strides and swallows. _Ugh, Lord- take me now._

They don’t look the sort she’s been following for days on end. They’re too laid-back, they hardly give the surrounding area a second look, and are arguing with each other in the dead center of the city. They also happen to be missing the stupid face paint that she’s become accustomed to seeing. And…

She shifts the scope, looking at their chests, _No emblems._

Emily relaxes, marginally, and wonders about her next move. Far as she could tell, they were useless to her. Maybe she should just shoot them and take their stuff?

She squints, bites her cheek at the blatant _No_ that invades her mind, and questions her sanity when she pulls away from her gun and watches them with her own two eyes. Scratching at her chin, she slings her rifle over her shoulder and makes for the stairs.

Maybe they’ll have seen something? She hasn’t been on that side of the city yet.

She realizes when she reaches the first floor of the complex that aside from having bangs in the sixth grade, this is the dumbest thing she’s ever done. But, desperate times…call for dumb decisions.

As she sidles through the thin space created by the broken door of the foyer, she thinks about how much Rowan would be cursing if he could see her right now. He’d probably go all-American.

She winces in the sunlight, puts a hand up to guard her eyes and looks around. They’ve passed her, almost by a block, and two things hit her. One is that they have gorgeously long legs, and the other is that they’re fast. Too fast.

If things go south, running away isn’t an option.

“Yeah, no. This dumber than having bangs.” She says and takes off after them in a light jog, using the cars and debris as cover to get closer. They aren’t arguing anymore, if the silence is anything to go by. But they are still very much angry at each other; striking heels on the pavement, shoulders hunched, steadfastly staring forward.

Emily says a quick prayer: _Don’t let this go to shit,_ and steps out into the street behind them. “Hey,” she says cautiously, and they whirl they like they’re on a pivot. Pistols are aimed at her faster than she can blink, and she thinks _Shit._

“Whoa, hey.” She says, and lifts her hands in the universal ‘I come in peace’ gesture, and tries not to show how much she’s regretting trying to be a good neighbor. “I’m not here to start something.” She tells them, flicking between them. Somehow, having a gun aimed at her has dampened their looks and she finds it easier to keep her tongue in her mouth.

“Yeah,” one of them scoffs. The shorter one, by a few inches, which doesn’t mean much to her because she’s shorter than both of them. “Then what do you want?” he snaps, and she feels like maybe he’s holding that trigger _too_ tight.

“I just- had a couple questions.” She ventures, slow and wary, and tenses a little more when they stare at her hard and distrusting. “Look, if I was going to kill you, I would’ve done it 5 minutes ago on top of that roof,” she tells them and jerks her head over her shoulder.

Their eyes slide to the apartment complex and then shoot up to the roof. “Huh.” The taller one says, some kind of surprised, and lowers his gun. His friend glares sideways at him, and renews dedication at aiming his gun toward her.

Emily decides to ignore him, and drops her hands to her sides to talk to the one who still remembers how to have a conversation. “So, what did you want to ask?”

She smiles a little in thanks. “Well, you didn’t happen to see a bunch of guys on your way in, did you? Stupid and trigger-happy.” She adds at the end, hoping to jog memories.

They both look at each other, and the taller one answers. “Yeah. They’re headed east, toward 176.”

Emily breathes deep, chews a lip and nods. “Okay…how many?” she holds her breath waiting for an answer, already knowing what it is.

“A lot.”

She rolls her tongue along the back of her teeth and thinks ahead, far ahead. About to where she’ll die, and then she nods again. “Alright. Thanks.” And turns on her heel with her mind trotting east.

She makes it to an intersection, a block away, when she hears the nicer one call out.

“Hey- wait!”

 She peers over her shoulder and finds him jogging after her, long hair bouncing with every step, and it kind of reminds her of Rowan. Enough so that she feels at ease when he finally reaches her.

Emily peers up, straight up, into his face. “Yeah, so I’m waiting. What’s up?”

He opens his mouth, blinks a couple times and then makes a decision. “Why are you trying to find these guys?”

What a strange thing to ask. Why would he? She pauses, “Uh, well…I’m hoping they’ll lead me to what they took.” Kind of vague, vague enough that he isn’t satisfied and asks her,

“What did they take?”

What did they take? That’s a simple question, but loaded to her. They took her family, her peace of mind, her hope, her optimism, they took her morals and ethics, they took a piece of her heart…

“Everything.” She tells him, finally feeling the weight of that word apply to her life. “They took everything.” This time it’s an admission, and it’s bitter in her mouth, it steels her. That’s why she’s been able to keep going: because she doesn’t have anything left to lose.

He stares at her critically, like he’s looking for a lie or hyperbole in her claim, and when he finds neither, he mellows out around the edges, and she thinks, _I’ve found one. I’ve actually found another human being in the apocalypse._

“Sam,” he tells her, and holds out a large hand for her to shake.

_Wow, he’s nice and he has manners._ She takes his hand, “Emily.” She laughs a little and Sam quirks a brow. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve actually shook someone’s hand?”

He chuckles. “yeah, I think I do.”

“Oh, am I late to the party?” his friend grumbles with a low brow glare, and Emily blinks a few times in his direction. When did he get here?

Sam breezes on. “Emily, this is my brother, Dean.” Dean nods at her, a tiny jerk of his head, and she smiles thinly at him.

“Well, anyway,” Sam starts, and looks east. “If you’re going after these guys-“

“-Sam, no.”

“You’re going to need help,”

“-Absolutely not. Don’t listen to him. We’re moving on.”

“And we’d be happy-“

“No we wouldn’t.”

“-To lend a hand.”

Emily stares between the two of them, patient and helpful, and broody and callous, and opens her mouth-

“Sorry, but we can’t help you.” Dean says, directing his scowl at Sam, the words also, like a reminder, and Sam doesn’t budge.

Emily nods, unsure about what exactly is happening, looks at them some more, and then starts off toward 176. Sam smiles, and follows, and Dean grinds his teeth so hard his lower jaw almost becomes his upper.

The older Winchester glances behind him, in the direction they were headed, and then looks ahead at his stupid brother and his new charity act. He’s torn. Rightfully so, because you and that Aussie passed through this town, or you were headed in this direction at least, and they needed to keep looking for you. You and the book. Together. Both things they needed, in one place.

They needed-

He rakes his hands through his hair, growls and kicks a nearby heap of trash and glares after Sam.

-To stay together.

He should know by now. He should stop trying to kid himself.

He pouts, hands in pockets and trudges after the two of them, trying to cut himself some slack.

“So, how long have you been looking?” Sam asks her, eyes low on the ground. You never know what people leave lying around.

“Um,” she scans the buildings for people, people like her and half-heartedly answers. “Don’t know, a couple months? The days sorta run together.”

Sam nods, understanding. “Yeah. They really do.”

“What about you two?” she says out of the blue, glancing behind her at Dean who’s moodily kicking around loose rubbish in his way.

“…we’re looking too.” He says, too loosely, too tired, and Emily’s curious. But she recognizes the look on his face and keeps her burning questions to herself, despite feeling a bit miffed.

“Who are these wackos?” Dean pipes up at her other shoulder, and she jumps.

“You need a goddamn bell!” she points at him and his feet and huffs while Sam chews a smile and Dean rolls his eyes. “They’re…I don’t know, honestly. They’re just crazy,” she waves her hand, squints at the horizon for more words because both of them are waiting. “I guess they’re a cult, sort of, or-“ she growls.

“Look, they’re a huge group. They kill people, take shit and kidnap whatever kids are left on this cess-pool of a planet.”  

“They got a name? Or they just a bunch of disorganized assholes?” Dean questions, suddenly curious and caring very much about this topic.

“Not that I know of. But they paint this emblem on their clothes-“

“What is it?” both brothers ask at the same time, zeroed in on her and the words that leave her mouth.

“Uh. It’s…an altar. Of fire.” She says, words disjointed because of surprise.

They both look at each other over her head, resignation and dread in their eyes and she wonders what they know. What they’re pretending they don’t know.

“They have a base of operations?”

Emily rubs at her jaw, feeling suddenly too tired. Well, she hasn’t been sleeping much, and she doesn’t ever travel with people, and if she does they usually aren’t so talkative.

“Maybe. If they do, I haven’t come across it. I’m hoping that’s where they’re headed.” She shrugs, hoping this conversation will lapse into silence soon.

“No offense, but that’s kind of stupid of you.”

Dean blinks at Sam. _Well, okay, and people say I’m the asshole of the two of us?_

Emily laughs dryly, and nods. “Desperate times call for dumb decisions.”

Sam smirks, points at Emily and Dean. “You two could be sisters.”

“Shuddap.” Dean frowns.

The next few miles do pass in silence, and the sun starts its descent in the mean-time, clouds starting to slow and hang around on the horizon in the cool of the day. They hit the highway at the beginning of dusk, and wonder just how far they have to go.

Broken down cars are stretched farther than the eye can reach, and none of them look hopeful enough to try. The highway is too crowded for a car to be any good. They’d just be stuck if they could get one working.

“Talk about traffic congestion.” Dean remarks, standing on tip-toes to see more of the same.

Emily nods grimly, and can only see one thing. “Lot’s of places to hide. Nice ambush spot.” She points out, reaching for the pistol in the waistband of her jeans.

Sam and Dean both have the decency to look a little sheepish while they draw their own weapons. Emily drops her shoulder and lets her rifle slide off into her hand. She hesitates a moment before offering it to Sam.

He looks at her, open astonishment in his high eyebrows, and she smiles. “See what you can see.” She shrugs as way of explanation and Sam nods dumbly. Which is something Sam doesn’t do.

_God, he’s so tall he can use the top of a car…_ Emily watches him peer down the scope, and sweep the highway. Back and forth once or twice, and then looks at her and shrugs.

“A shrug?” Dean gripes. “A shrug. A shrug is ‘I’m not sure’. Look again.” He demands, and waves his arm toward the stretch of cars ahead, and Sam glares so hard his eyes about disappear under his brow.

But he looks again.

Emily sighs. She can tell this is going to be a long trip. A very long trip.

When it’s finally too dark to travel comfortably, they call it a night and hunker down between two cars whose noses are mashed into one another. The body of the cars makes a V, and Emily leans into them where they meet.

Dean decided on first watch, ordered it more like, and Emily was so tired she didn’t argue. She wasn’t sure how she felt about letting her rifle rest in the hands of an almost stranger, but she had little choice. When she first handed it over, he had stared at the scope, and then looked up at the night sky, squinting.

Somehow, she knew he was going to say something, complain about zero-visibility, so she dug into her backpack and tossed him a new scope.

“Night-vision?” he checked.

“Night-vision.” She had said, and slumped down between two tires.

And there she had remained. There she still was.

Sam was leaned into the back tire of an SUV, sawing logs. Emily guessed that if they were going to rob her or kill her, it wouldn’t do for one of the outfit to take a snooze. So, at the very least, she could relax. Maybe close her eyes for a few moments…

…

“Hey!” Dean whisper-shouts, and she’s up faster than she’s ever gotten up in her life, Sam jolting awake a few feet away.

“What?” she asks, shifting to rest on a knee, gun in her hands and Sam’s in much the same position.

Dean looks between the two of them, she can only tell because his silhouette shifts, and his leather jacket creaks.

He sighs, irritated, and leans into the butt of her rifle, staring down the scope. “We got company.” He says.

Emily spins on her knee, digs through her bag again and finds what she’s looking for. “Sam.” She says and tosses him-

“Another scope?” he says in disbelief when it lands into his palm. He uses most of his peripherals to catch it.

She attaches one to her handgun and nods, knowing he probably can’t see her. “It isn’t night-vision. But it’s something.” And she stands, staying a good portion covered by the hood and cut of the windshield, and stares down her scope.

“’Something’ will have to do.” Sam remarks and comes to stand beside her, staring over the roof of the Honda. Least he thinks it’s a Honda.

The last thing that’s said between any of them is, “Sam if we die, I’m gonna kill you after.”

_Fair enough._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to leave a little break in the story right here. I feel it deserves it, the way it's written. So, I will see you in a few days time. Take it easy, lovelies. Life is rough.


	9. Sometimes It's Within Our Favor: Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The road doesn't take them to the coast, but it certainly doesn't take them anywhere they expect. Not that she's complaining. Emily realizes pretty quick that having the Winchesters on her side is a good thing, a really good thing. Maybe she'll actually survive this crazy kamikaze stunt. Meanwhile, the Winchesters struggle with their own problems the only way they know how: by bottling them up and hiding them.

Emily isn’t sure how, but they’re all still alive. Blind luck. A whole lot of blind luck. In the beginning, it wasn’t clear how many of them there were. But there were already too many, a curse from Dean told her that much.

_And then he was squeezing off a shot. Emily thought she heard a body thump into a car a ways down, and hoped he could keep that kind of accuracy._

_Through her own scope, she couldn’t see much, just moving shadows and rolling shapes, and she knows it would be pointless to shoot until she’s closer._

_She raises her head, listens to shoes scuff, and men whistle to each other…and listens to the lack of gun-fire on their end._

_‘Oh, this is stupid.’ She tells herself, right before she slides over the hood, ignoring Sam’s alarmed cry and ducks behind another car. She thinks she hears Dean cuss, say something about Sam and his ‘choice of women’ and then fires the rifle again._

_There’s scuffling ahead, metal scraping against fabric and skin, four instances of it. Two to her left, one on her right and the other is on the opposite side of this car. Another whistle, and they all mobilize, scattering among the cars, and she hears the one closest slide his way toward the hood of this car._

_‘Gonna pull a James Bond, hm?’ she thinks, spinning on her heel, back toward the end of the car and digs in her boot for the hunting knife she has stashed there._

_Sam fires off a couple shots, unsuccessful in claiming a target, and the ambitious ambusher glides over the hood, unknowing about her lying in wait. His boots thump on cracked highway, and she lunges, getting an arm around his chest._

_He jolts, struggles, tries to push her back but she’s braced against the door of the car and he has no give. He tries twisting, breaking away, and she kicks in the back of his knee. A grunt hardly leaves him before her knife slices home, and he garbles on thick blood, choking._

_Whistling, somewhere to her right is all the warning she gets before something sharp cuts her arm and clangs into the stone divider for the highway ahead of her. She hisses, spins, and shoots blindly in that direction, watching sparks fly as bullets hit cars, and the rifle cuts through the noise like an exclamation point at the end of a boring sentence._

_One of them curses, growls, and Emily yanks the driver side door open to crouch behind it. After this was all over, she was going to look for another night vision scope. It was now a necessity._

_Shoes thump and scuffle immediately behind her and she throws her arm out, aiming to sink her knife into a thigh or calf or something, but a large hand captures her wrist. Gently, she notices, and peers behind her, seeing the hulking frame of Sam ducked and bent to get cover from the door, and she shakes her head at him._

_He does the same, lets her wrist go, shifts his stance and listens._

_It’s quiet. No one moves. It’s hard to tell if the wind is even blowing. Sam begins to think that maybe this ambush unit has retreated until they break the silence by howling. Fucking howling like they’re wolves or something._

_‘Yeah, okay. She was right: they are crazy.’ He admits, and tips his chin to stare through the windows of the car, glaring his gaze to try and catch movement. Something shifts in the shadows diagonal from them, hunched in the darkness cast by a minivan, and Sam raises his gun._

_It's hard to see, lack of moonlight doesn’t help, and everything’s so crowded it’s difficult to tell whether something is a heap of debris or if it’s human. But he waits, focus determined, and breath steady, stance rigid even if it is uncomfortable. He doesn’t budge, not when Emily shuffles behind him, not when Dean takes another shot, and not when his eyes start to sting._

_One more whistle, and that lump moves, shifts in the shoulders, or maybe its legs jolting the form, but it moves and that’s what matters._

_Sam squeezes the trigger, aiming for the center of the bulk, and pops off a couple rounds hearing blood spatter and flesh squelch, and listens to that indistinct shape gasp and grunt._

_He sighs, lowers his gun and looks over his shoulder to see how Emily is doing. Only for her not to be there. He raises his head, swivels back and forth, trying to catch a glimpse of her in the proximity._

_No need though, because Dean runs around the back of that Honda and drops to a sliding crouch on the other side of the open door, and jumps when he finds Sam staring at him in the dark. He grunts a noise, something irritated and portraying ‘Don’t do that!’ when he throws a hand up._

_Dean doesn’t waste any time talking to Sam before he’s standing and perching the gun on top of the car, scanning ahead. Both Winchesters tense when they hear someone yell, and then flesh thud on flesh. Dean watches two illuminated, green figures grapple and throw punches, knives barely miss skin, and he waves Sam forward hurriedly._

_Sam doesn’t bother ducking and looking for cover, he’s almost certain this is the last one, and even if it isn’t, Dean is watching his back._

_He thumps toward the sound of a fist-fight, the occasional hiss of metal as it slices through air. When he gets close enough to see them, he distinguishes between the thinner, smaller frame of Emily and the broader, bulkier form of her opponent._

_He rushes in, shouldering the guy in the side and disrupting one of his punches. They hit the ground hard and Sam rolls his way to stand, ready to fight tooth and nail in the dark. But when he plants his feet, his eyes widen._

_Emily has their opponent in a head-lock, a boot on the back of one of his ankles, and he’s clawing at her forearm desperately, teeth gritted. Sam blinks, hears a crack, and watches his body go limp._

_Emily heaves a breath, and throws the body sideways with a groan. Sam wants to say something, but the words are stuck, and it doesn’t matter because Dean’s boots break the silence. Best he can, he takes in the scene, bites a cheek, and then whistles, thoroughly impressed._

She had reminded them it was the apocalypse: she couldn’t wait around like some damsel in distress for her knight in shining armor. They had just nodded.

After a short session of cataloging injuries and ammo and what-not, it was decided that it would be better to get off his stretch of highway as soon as possible.

So, here they were, trudging around in the middle of the night, dragging feet and rubbing dry eyelids, waiting for day break. Emily’s arm throbs, and stings and Sam said it might need stitches but it was too dark to try and sew her up so it had to wait until morning. Right now, it was tied off with a bandana, it was so tight it was starting to cut off circulation. But she wasn’t complaining, not really.

Dean still has her rifle, and totes it around in his arms rather than on his shoulder like she did. She doesn’t want to ask for it back yet. It seemed like Dean might be a little attached, and besides, the less she had to carry the better.

To Emily it feels like the highway stretches on forever, and it may as well: it goes all the way to the coast. She hopes they don’t have to walk that far. If she’s trying to be genuinely hopeful, she thinks the cars will thin out soon, and they can get one working.

Finally, when _she_ can’t stand the silence anymore, she speaks up, talking to Dean. “So,” he hums beside her. “Did I hear you say something about me, back there?” she asks, jamming a thumb over her shoulder, and he coughs.

He waves his hand at her, flapping the appendage too fiercely for someone trying to be smooth. “What? No, of course not.”

Sam smiles on the other side of him, and decides to jump in. “No, no, she’s right. I remember you saying something.”

Emily’s eyebrows jump up, the gesture barely visible to Dean beside her. “Oh, really? What did he say, Sam?”

Sam opens his mouth, grinning, and Dean interrupts with-

“Hey, look- the highway cuts off up here. Think they went that way?”

Emily stares flatly as he breaks away to inspect this new ‘prospect’ and Sam rolls his eyes; they’re both unfazed by Dean’s attempt at avoidance.

“I believe you were saying something, Sam?” Emily says, subtly biting the inside of her cheek, and Sam nods at her, feigning recollection and Dean:

“Hey, guys.”

“Well, you see Emily, after you jumped into the fray-“

“You guys.”

“Dean remarked about your reckless attitude and then-“

“They went this way.”

Sam blinks, mid-sentence, and Emily snaps her gaze over to Dean. He points above him, toward a sign. It reads: Pacolet 2.2 miles.

Barely legible because of erosion and bullet holes, and also because an altar of fire has been spray-painted over it.

Well, if that wasn’t clear-cut, Emily didn’t know what was. Pacolet. They were hiding out in Pacolet of all places. Nothing much to talk about in Pacolet, but maybe that was the point.

“Okay,” Dean starts, and cradles the rifle into the crook of his elbow, staring at Emily. “Before we board the Crazy Train to Halloween Town, you wanna tell us a little more?”

Emily scowls. How dare he be making demands while hogging her rifle, and her night-vision scope. He wasn’t keeping that. “Like what?” she asks, trying to remain light.

“What are you trying to take back from them?” he says, and clicks his tongue. “Cause nobody goes chasing after a bunch of crazies for something like their morals, or their outlook on life.” He continues, and goes a little dismissive, somewhat condescending when he says his next words.

“It’s the apocalypse. All we really have are tangible things now, people and materials. Those are the only things that matter; everything else can be sacrificed.” He preaches, to Emily, to Sam, to himself. Not much had changed since it all went to shit; he was still trying to convince himself of things he knows aren’t true.

“So, what are you really after?” he finishes with a tilt of his head, watching her expression falter and sway, probably deciding on whether or not to give him the truth.

Sam looks half-ready to reprimand Dean for prying, and for being such a coward. He knows. Sam knows that whatever Dean did to you was eating him up inside, it was killing him from the inside and working its way out. And now, the only way his brother could save himself was by believing that it was necessary and nothing was off the table. That anyone could do anything, that anyone had to be capable of everything.

Dean was good at running, but he was also terrible at it. Because the idea was to outrun it, put it behind you, let it fade. But it was always at the fore-front of his mind, whatever it was; whatever it was that was eating him up was never far away. And now, this time it’s you.

That’s most of the reason Sam went with Emily: he honestly didn’t want Dean anywhere near you, it was bad for him and for you. It wasn’t so urgent that they find you, the world wasn’t going to disappear, and neither were you. As for finding you, after Cas healed up and rested, he could locate you again, and they’d start off.

That Aussie was a lot more rounded than they gave him credit for: not only had he somehow replicated the book (the thing looked damn authentic, down to the last rune), but he had managed to fishtail the sport bike, shoot a damn automatic pistol (catching Dean in the shoulder through the windshield), and blow out a tire. Then, he had spun the motorcycle around and shot off like it was nothing, all while you clung to his back.

Cas had healed Dean’s bullet wound, but it had taken a lot out of him, and he didn’t have the energy to expend on finding you at the moment. So, he was back at that church, resting, waiting by a cellphone, just in case.

After that, it had been back to finding you the old-fashioned way. It was slow and arduous, and it was hardly an exact science. Without technology, or people to use as way to gather information, they were flying blind, riding on hunches and barely thought out guesses.

Four days. If he was being honest, and he was, the trail was dead cold, and they were just running around like a bunch of idiots without a clue. Whoever that Australian was, took them for a loop and left them laying in the dirt. At the very least, Sam could rest easy knowing that you were being looked after by someone like him. After all, they needed you alive.

Sam was certain, at least right now, the best way to keep you alive was to keep Dean away from you. Because it was becoming clear to Sam that Dean was slowly becoming a whatever-means-necessary kind of man, and there wasn’t any coming back from that.

Also, he does just want to help Emily. She’s marching toward death if she does this alone, and Sam knows it’s like to face those kinds of odds. He knows what it’s like to lose everything, he especially knows what’s it like to lose-

“My family.” Emily says, face drawn against any weakness or hesitation. She’s past that now.

Dean chews a lip in thought, frowns at the ground, hard enough that Emily wonders if he’s angry at her answer.

That’s the other reason Sam decided to go with Emily. Dean had forgotten what it was like to _save people_ instead of the other option. He needed to save someone, and not just Sam. Someone else, someone unaffiliated and unbiased, blameless in their endeavors, someone they had never met before in their lives.

Dean just needed to save someone for the sake of saving someone.

Because, Sam knows, that’s still who Dean is. That’s who Dean will always be.

The older Winchester looks up, and smirks with sparks in his eyes. “Well, then. Let’s go get ‘em, sweetheart.”

It isn’t the speech at the end of Brave Heart and it definitely isn’t Samwise Gamgee’s speech in The Two Towers, but for Emily, it’s enough. And for Sam, it’s infinitely more.

“Right,” she says, cracking a smile, a small smile, and then winces in her eyebrows. “Before that though, think one of you could stitch up this shoulder?”

Dean bites a lip, shakes his head and starts off down the exit. “Just rub some dirt in it,” and waves a hand over his shoulder.

Emily scoffs, stares after him and cocks a hip saucily. “I can’t believe I started to like him.” She grouses, making Sam chuckle.

“Soon as we stop, I’ll stitch you up.” He promises.

Emily smiles, _There he is: the last living, decent human being of the apocalypse. And he's on my side._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, was not proofread because, I don't know I just didn't feel like it. FYI, it has been four days since Rowan's daring rescue, and six in total since Chapter 1. Next Chapter we'll see what's going on with Jace. As always: Take it easy, lovelies. Life is rough.


	10. Psshh. Fuck Michael Scoffield, We've Got Jace Callahan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, looky here at all these paths meeting. It's like fate. Or something. Then again, maybe this wasn't such a good idea, there's something a little...dark about the kid. As if Dean can talk, but he's always been a little hypocritical.

He’s barely awake, clinging to the last shreds of consciousness on a stone floor in the pitch black. He doesn’t know how much longer he can last, how many more people he can…

He shakes his head, curls his arms around his middle and thinks of you, Rowan, Emily, and knows he has to. He has to keep going, no matter what.

Sure, he’s tired, his knuckles are busted and crusted over with dried blood. Sure, his ribs ache something awful, and his right shoulder grinds and pops every time he moves it. Sure, he’s a mess, but he has to keep going.

He has to forget what they tell him after it’s all over. He has to forget who they are, forget what he’s done.

Has to, has to, has to.

A mantra. His excuse, and his absolution. He wonders what it’s like outside, if it’s warm and if trees and flowers have started budding yet. He wonders if it’s warm enough to go swimming.

He wonders about a lot things. He just doesn’t wonder if he’s going to make it anymore, he’s almost to the point of not caring.

But then he thinks of you. And he decides he will.

Like usual, it’s quiet out in the hallway, no sounds to be heard. He heaves and grunts his way to his knees, and scrabbles around in the dark, feeling and patting the floor. Smooth, smooth, smooth, rough.

He stops, digs around in his sweatshirt, in the lining and feels for the hole he made. His fingers sink in and touch cold metal, and pulls out a spoon. The only thing he’s been able to smuggle in the months he’s been here. And it wasn’t aimless.

There’s a grate in his room, somewhere around the middle of the floor, and it leads down, down into the underbelly of wherever he’s being held. There are echoes down there, from dripping water, and from rats, and for a while he just listened, envious. Envious of rats…

Until he had started feeling around the grate, and found that it been screwed in. And then he had felt how big it was, big enough that he didn’t have to worry. 

Of course there was no way he could find a screwdriver, so he had to improvise.

A spoon. A spoon would be his freedom.

He feels for the screws, large and rough, most likely rusted, and picks up where he left off. Screw number two. He has the first in his front pocket, inside the smaller one that sits in with your big pocket. He had always wondered why they bothered with such a small pocket, what could you possibly hope to use it for?

He’s slow, meticulous, careful about how he turns the spoon. He doesn’t want the screws to creak. It may seem quiet out in the hallway, but that’s only because they’re listening. Listening for someone, anyone to act out of conduct. There’s nothing the guards like more than roughing up the prisoners just for the hell of it.

He feels it loosen, and smiles, daring to be hopeful. He doesn’t even know where this grate leads, he could be heading into a dead end. But anywhere was better than staying here, in this room, in the dark.

Soon he’s just twirling the spoon and the screw is spinning in its hole, undone. He snatches it up, tucks it in next to the other screw, and debates stopping. Why push your luck, right?

And then his ribs throb at him, like a reminder. That’s what not pushing your luck gets you.

 _Take a damn risk, Jace. Maybe it’ll get you out of here_ , he tells himself, nodding. He reckons he has about ten minutes before they come by with lunch, and that’s long enough to get the other screw undone, so he gets to work. Hands on the task, mind on a plan, and his ear on the hallway.

If being here has done one thing for him, it’s taught him how to multi-task, and fight. More-so the second than the first, and it’s something he loathes but is also grateful for. If only he were fighting people that deserved what he did to them.

He’s freed another screw, one step closer to freedom, and takes the small victory. Hides the evidence, and his tool of liberation, and settles back in his corner with heavy limbs and tired thoughts. That’s another thing this place has done: given him time to think.

He thinks about you a lot, more than the others, and he almost feels guilty about it. But the peace your memory brings overshadows the misplaced guilt easily. He waits, trying to grab a couple minutes of sleep, or relaxation, lets the fog settle and goes back. Back to that cove with its chilly air and lulling sounds, back to the smiles and laughter. Back to when life was simpler, when it wasn’t as dark.

Doors creak somewhere down the hallway, and his stomach growls, but he straightens himself, crosses his legs and folds his arms, feigning indifference. He learned pretty quick that extremes didn’t do well in here: begging and groveling or displaying bravery, courage of any sort, egged the guards to either take away lunch or engage in a beating.

He learned from watching, listening, being patient. He was far too patient for an adolescent boy if anyone was being honest, but it was how he survived.

His door opens, light spills in, piercing his eyelids, and he slowly blinks them open. Jace is lucky enough to get the guard that doesn’t give a shit. That’s who guards his cell: the one who doesn’t give a shit.

“Lunch.” He says, places the tray on the ground and leaves. When the guard is outside, he slides the small window open, allowing some light into the room so that Jace can see to eat.

He wonders if all the other guards do that? It doesn’t seem like they would, but he decides not to remark on it, just in case.

Lunch isn’t a whole lot: just some pork and beans and what he thinks is corn-beef hash. But it’s something, and he tries not to wolf it down. He tries to eat slow, the last thing he needs is an upset stomach or to throw this up.

Too soon, it’s gone, and all he’s left is to drink the Styrofoam cup of water. He’s not so conservative when he gets to that, it’s gone in two large gulps and he misses the moment the moment he picked the cup up.

When he’s done, he situates himself in the corner, hunched and knees drawn, and pretends to be falling asleep. The guard doesn’t say anything when he takes the tray, and this time, he shuts the window.

 _It shouldn’t be too long,_ Jace thinks, counting the seconds, seconds that bleed into minutes. 7 minutes to be exact. A couple of door squeak open, and people either cry or fight their way out, both instances portray their reluctance.

The ones that cry are the ones that die, they’re the ones that have given up. The ones that fight are still in denial, and the ones like him- the ones that quietly go, have accepted it.

Noises disappear, slowly, and he thinks.

_Tight schedule. Lunch is always ten minutes after my fight, the duration of lunch itself is ten minutes. And seven minutes after lunch, another match starts. Two more follow it, and then it’s quiet the rest of the night, all the way until morning when they pick a new contestant. The guard shift changes halfway into morning. The new guard gives us breakfast, it lasts five minutes and then the first match of the day begins. My best bet is to get out of here by the time the last match of the day starts._

He crawls in the dark, back to that grate and gets his spoon out. He can distant cheers and roaring of a crowd, letting him know about the state of the match. The more exciting the match, the better. The crowd will be louder, and he won’t have to worry about the noise he makes.

But something happens, something that never happens. The guards outside talk to each other, distorted chatter that Jace can’t make out, but the instance is so rare, he freezes where he is and listens anyway. Footsteps stomp, thump away, and they talk again. They sound confused, and Jace doesn’t know what to make of that, so he hurries, their conversation giving his escape attempt extra cover.

And then something even more bizarre happens, the guards start cursing, grunting, and Jace hears flesh thud on flesh. He hears one of them garble, and gurgle around blood, he hears a body hit the floor, and he works faster.

He’s not so naïve to think he’s being rescued, or that there’s been a mutiny of some sort. The screw goes loose in its hold and he yanks it out, hearing the guard’s keys jingle. A door opens at the far end, and that doesn’t make any sense; the other match isn’t over yet.

He pockets the screw, puts the spoon back into his sweatshirt, and curls his fingers around the bars of the grate, and _puuuulls_.

It jangles, and screeches, but doesn’t come up, and he pulls harder.

Another door opens, and somehow, that terrifies him. This has never happened before, he doesn’t know what it means, and he doesn’t want to find out. Maybe they’re just cleaning house and getting rid of everybody.

He jerks, tugs, feels it loosen and exhales shakily. Another door clangs open.

And that’s when he hears it; footsteps, running, down the hall, past his door and disappearing up the stairs. That isn’t the way they go when they have a match…

Voices make their way to him, deep and masculine, and slightly angry. But there’s compassion behind it, and that causes his heart to race. A new variable that he can’t factor, a new obstacle in his survival, something he’s never calculated and he doesn’t know how to handle this new trick.

He doesn’t have enough information. He needs to know what happens after they go up those stairs, but he doesn’t want to stick around to find out.

The grate jars, vibrates a little, and he hears a crack come from one of the corners. He’s almost there, he just has to keep pulling.

Another door, this one right across from him, and he grits his teeth, planting his feet on either side of the grate to get better leverage. His fingers hurt, and his forearms have gone a little numb, he thinks maybe he tore a muscle in his left bicep, but it doesn’t stop him. He has to get this grate up. He has to.

The person across from him says something, something teary and wet and grateful and then bolts for the stairs and his mind sways, tilts back and forth like it’s on a boat, unsteady. Then boots stomp to his door, and he hisses.

_Have to get this grate open. Have to._

They talk outside his door, quiet and uncertain. Reluctant, and hopeful, and Jace is so damn confused.

_Come on, you piece of-_

The keys jingle.

_Open!_

The door unlocks, and the crate pops off with several cracks and snaps. He almost loses his balance, but he throws the grate sideways to compensate, and he hears them exclaim in confusion outside his door.

He hears, “Open it, it’s probably him!”

Jace drops, sitting on the edge of the open, legs dangling down in, and he’s ready to jump.

But the door opens, and one of them says, “Whoa, hold up, kid!”

And he blinks, wide and disoriented in the bright light, and he thinks, _These guys are freaking huge, not even I could take them down._

Jace glares, glances down, and the one that called him ‘kid’ speaks up again. “Wait a second, we’re not here to hurt you, just- is your name Jace?” It’s all a rush, a rush he barely listens to, but he knows his name when he hears it, and he hasn’t heard it in so long it’s like a breath of fresh air.

But he’s still in survival mode, so he glares harder. “Yeah, who’s asking?”

And then the guy smirks, looking way too pleased. “Just the guy who’s saving your ass-“

“Dean, come on, we gotta go. Emily’s distraction isn’t going to last all day.”

 Her name has Jace perking, “Emily? You know her?”

Dean nods. “Sure do. She shanghaied us into helping save you-“

The other one shakes his head. “She did not.”

The rest of the conversation is cut off by a loud siren, and red light floods the hallway. Doors clang closed, and both guys curse.

Jace smiles warily. “Looks like I’m saving you now, huh?” he says. “Follow me.” And he slides down through the grate, almost missing their noises of cut off surprise.

He falls straight down, lets his joints go loose, and the moment he makes impact he crouches with his momentum and rolls. It’s colder down here, that’s clear right off the bat, it’s damp too and the walls shine with moisture.

“Hey kid, you alright?” he hears from above, and stands to call back.

“Yeah, it’s all good down here. Just make sure you roll when you hit; it’s a straight drop.” They grunt back at him, and he takes a few steps back to give them space, they looked pretty tall.

Jace wonders how they met up with Emily, where she is, how Rowan is doing, what you’re doing. He doesn’t even have to wonder about worried Quin is, she’s probably aged 20 years in the past few months.

They both land, seconds apart, grumbling and huffing with the drop, and Jace wonders who they are to just up and volunteer to save him. They didn’t even know each other.

“So, which way?” the tallest one asks, and Jace thinks quick.

_Okay, there was a manhole cover on the way into the prison on the west side of the building- he remembers having the sun behind him when they marched him in- I was put into cell-block C which is on the north side…the drop has us facing south…_

He looks right, sees the tunnel bend, and points. “That way.”

They both nod at each other and start off in that direction, drawing pistols. Jace trails close behind, listening to sirens wail and people yell at each other over it. There’s no danger of being heard down here, so he makes light conversation. He was practically starved for it.

“So, who are you guys?” he asks, watching their shadows crawl along the wall in the dimness.

“I’m Dean,” the shorter one says, peering over his shoulder to look down at Jace, “and that’s Sam.” He jerks his head toward his brother, and Jace nods.

As it is, that’s all he has in the way of conversation. He’s a little out of practice, he’ll admit. He tucks his hands into the pocket of his sweatshirt, and follows along quietly. He thinks about the spoon hidden in the lining and almost laughs about how absurd it is. When he remember they’re carrying guns, he does chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” Dean asks him, turning to walk sideways so he can keep an eye on him.

Jace shakes his head, “Trust me it isn’t funny, I’m just tired.” He says, and rubs at his chin, feeling a little awkward.

Dean must sense it, because he keeps talking. “So, how old are you anyway? 12?” he takes a guess, which he finds out is immediately wrong: Jace scowls at him.

“Fourteen,” he clips, and then he realizes he’s being a little shitty, he tries to lighten it with, “Do I get to guess how old you are?”

Dean chuckles, but shakes his head. “No, no you do not.”

Sam pipes up from the front. “Hey, which way?”

Jace peers around Dean, who after a second of thinking, ushers him between the two of them with a hand on his shoulder. “Left, we gotta keep heading west.”

Sam scoff a little in pleasant disbelief, maybe a portion impressed. “You know which way is west? Down here?”

Jace smirks at him. “You wanna know what the square root of pi is?”

Dean puffs out a breath behind him, the sound saying ‘this kid.’. “Alright Einstein 1 and 2, let’s go.” He says and gets the line moving again.

Dean doesn’t know what to make of all this. He means Jace, not the saving him part. Because he distinctly remembers you telling that red-haired Australian to ‘Find Jace.’ And he doesn’t think it’s a coincidence that they ran into Emily who was also looking for him. Two people who knew the same kid, who were both looking for him.

No doubt about it, Jace knew you, and Emily knew you. Which meant that both of these people had ties to you and that Aussie. He could also guess that Emily at least knew about the book, and that these people took Jace, and told your little group that the only way to get him back was to find the book and bring it to them. Jace’s hands were clean in this, figuratively speaking.

What to do? Well, at the moment, he couldn’t do much other than get this kid out of here. Until they knew exactly where you were, there wasn’t much need to take drastic action. They’d ride this roller coaster for the time being, and see where it took them.

Sam halts them at the end of a tunnel, a hand thrown up beside him. There’s a metal ladder stabbed into the wall at the end, it leads up, to a manhole cover. That’s not what gives him pause though. There’s a guard down there, walking from the ladder to the halfway point.

A good thing about this hallway is that it’s dark. And there are boxes, crates of some sort dotting the floor here and there.

“One guy, huh?” Jace pipes up from Sam’s side, barely reaching the middle of his ribcage, and Sam starts.

He pushes him back with an incredulous look and Jace remembers, _Right, these guys have no idea what I’ve done._

“What do you want to do?” Dean asks Sam quietly, holding up his gun for emphasis. ‘Shoot the guy?’

“Too noisy.”

“Okay, well, I doubt luring him would work,” that’s Jace offering input, and Dean blinks down at him.

“yeah, why’s that?”

“Well, he’s most likely stationed down here a lot, so he’s going to be used to all kinds of noises, either from rats or echoes, or the pipes pumping water across the building. I mean look at how relaxed the guy is even with all these alarms and shouting people.” Jace elaborates, and both Winchesters peer around the bend in the wall to look.

The guard is on his way down to their end, and he’s yawning, closing his eyes with it.

“It’d be pretty difficult to make him suspicious and if we did, he’d have to rule out the usual suspects and jump straight to ‘there’s somebody in the tunnels.’ And look, he’s got a radio attached to his shoulder,” sure enough, there it was, velcro-ed onto the vest he’s wearing.

“Instead of coming after us, he’d probably just call it in.”

Sam and Dean stare at him for a solid ten seconds in silence before Dean breaks it with, “Yeeah, I’m just gonna call you Sherlock if that’s cool-“

“I’d rather you not.”

“-So, what do you think, Sherlock?”

Jace glares half-heartedly and peeks around the corner again. The guard’s made it to the end and is turning around.

“Take him out quiet.”

“Yeah, how?” Dean snips, “Don’t know if you’ve noticed but we’re kinda huge. Not really anywhere to duck and crouch, you know?”

Jace nods, absently, inches around the corner observes. That’s a bullet proof vest, he notices, and he’s wearing shin guards, same with his arms, he’s got some kind of protection on them as well. And the gun he’s carrying…an AK-101. The same disassembly and magazine removal as an AK-74.

“Yeah, I see what you mean.” Jace mumbles, squinting. It won’t be too difficult, he surmises. He’s been in worse situations, with more against him than this.

“Back at square one, then.” Dean grumps, and Sam turns around to talk to him, to brainstorm. Brainstorming for the Winchester always ends up in an argument, and this one takes a grand-total of five seconds to happen. That’s a new record, for those of you wondering.

Dean hisses at Sam, frowning, and shooting down his idea of rushing the guy at the same and points behind Sam for emphasis when he stops and realizes-

“Where’d Sherlock go?”

Sam starts, eyes wide and peers around the wall. He watches that guard laze his way back to the end of the tunnel, and glares when he sees Jace tumble and roll from the cover of a crate to crouch his way to another.

The kid practically disappears when he nestles in, cloaked by the shadow the box creates, and he’s silent. Clearly, he slipped away from Sam and Dean without either of them noticing.

The guard has no idea.

“He’s…” sam points around the corner, and Dean’s nostrils flare. ‘Damn kid’ he grumbles.

“So much for saving his ass,” Dean huffs, throwing his arms up.

Sam watches Jace slip out from behind the crate, quiet, watches him follow the guard. It’s more like he shadows him his movements are so fluid, and Sam notices that he isn’t even scared or the least bit intimidated. He’s sure about this and calm as a spring breeze.

There’s one more crate before the guard reaches his point A, and Jace ducks down into its cover as easily as if he were part of the shadows hiding him.

“Well…wait a second, Dean. He might be fine.” Sam mumbles, slow, anticipating what will happen next.

The guard turns on his heel, starts on his way, and Jace stands when he passes by the crate.

A quick, quiet whistle is what turns him.

The guard splutters when sharp bits of metal are thrown at his face, and he closes his eyes in response, not even getting a glimpse of his assailant. He lifts the gun to blindly shoot, but there are hands there already, and they’re quick and agile.

The magazine on his rifle clicks and is wrenched away, and when he opens his eyes, he’s smacked across the face with it. He reaches for his radio, doesn’t get close to touch the plastic before a fist finds its way to his throat and his vocal chords seize.

He wheezes, losing his grip on his gun and it’s pulled from his hands, he stumbles back, but it does little good because he’s bashed in the face with the butt of the rifle, once, twice, and he hits the ground like a sack of bricks.

The guard’s vision is swimming, and all he can really see is blond hair.

Jace locks the magazine back into place, swings the strap around a shoulder, and then digs inside his sweatshirt.

If anyone’s surprised about what he pulls from there, it’s Sam and Dean. Their eyebrows furrow in the midst of their mutual respect and astonishment.

‘A spoon?’ their faces say, and Dean actually makes it to speaking words. “What’s he gonna do with a spoon?”

He barely finishes his sentence before Jace twirls it in hand, and jams the handle into the guard’s temple. He leaves it there.

Jace looks up, smiles and waves them over. “Come on, we gotta get out of here.” And he starts up the ladder.

Sam and Dean, look at each other, not so much impressed as they are worried, maybe a little intimidated.

“Did you…?” Dean starts, and Sam answers him, nodding,

“Yeah, I saw that.” Sam begins down the hallway, poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “No hesitation whatsoever.”

“Dude,” Dean shakes his head. “If this little group gets back together, and they find out about…everything…there’s no way we’re getting Y/N or the book.” Dean pouts in thought, and Sam agrees next to him.

They hurry up the ladder after him, and finding him waiting, crouched low in some high grass near the road.

When they reach him, he’s quick to hand over the rifle on his shoulder to Dean with the explanation, “I’m in no condition to shoot a fire-arm.”

_No, just to kill a man, though. Ah, well. That’s the apocalypse, Dean, roll with it._

“Thanks, kid.” He says with a little head bob. “Now let’s the hell out of here, and find Emily.” He throws a glance over his shoulder at the prison on high-alert, sirens and alarms and search lights galore. And the people, there are so many damn people. And they’re all packing heat. “Desperate times…” he says to himself, and takes off after Sam and Jace.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa. I really wasn't even intending to post today, but inspiration just hit me and. I. Wrote. That's rare. Anywho, next chapter will star the lovely reader and we'll see what happened to you and Rowan after his impromptu rescue. Btw, I really hope you all like my OCs and don't find them annoying, if you do...sorry, I guess.


	11. You Think You Know A Guy...And Then He Kills Somebody.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As if you didn't have enough shit on your plate...who are the people you surround yourself with? Maybe this is why that rescue mission was nothing to him? Child's play for him. That should make you feel better about being with him, but somehow...it just doesn't. Better than Dean, though. Anybody's better than Dean, right? Right?

_5 days after the rescue…_

You hadn’t asked why exactly Rowan decided to drive through Spartanburg when the farmhouse was in the opposite direction. You’d been too tired to talk or think, or regret or anything. The one thing you had energy for was holding onto him like a life-ring in the middle of a storm at sea. Sounds desperate, but you were.

In a single day, he’d rescued you, faced off against the Winchesters, fooled them, injured Dean, handi-capped the Impala, and made a clean get-away. In a fucking day.

And here you were, day who knew what number, still just as hopeless and pathetic as when you started.

“Hey,” he says, and you look up, blinking. At least the swelling in your eye had gone down, and your jaw wasn’t as sore. But your eyebrow had needed stitches, as well as a portion of your jaw. You had begged Rowan to let you get some alcohol in your system before he went anywhere near your face with a needle. He had reluctantly agreed.

“What?” you monotone at him, and he blinks an expression at the landscape that he doesn’t want you to see.

Wordlessly, he holds out a can of peaches to you, spoon inside. Rowan was like a grandma: always trying to feed people.

You take it with hardly any intentions. “What are we doing?” you ask, mostly yourself, and toy with the spoon.

“Sharin’ a can of peaches.” Is his tired response. He knows what you mean. But he doesn’t intend to tell you that he has a plan to finish all of this madness.

You shake your head at him, just as tired, and try for sass; that’s always been his love language. “Asshole.”

He winces a smile, stretches his legs out and leans back against the log behind him, looking out at the rolling hills, trees dit-dotting the horizon, and speaks. “We’re almost outside of city limits, we can take a back road, be home in an hour,”

You nod while he talks, scoop up some slices of peaches and watch them slop back into the can. “We got the gas for that?” you ask, just to sound practical and in the moment, to sound present. To seem like you give a shit.

“Yeah, I stocked up, and we picked up a couple of cans while we were getting’ rid of the Winchesters,” he sneers the name, tosses a stone into the tall grass and continues. “And anyway, we can siphon some if we run low,” he traces his teeth with his tongue, wearily shakes his head. “Crazy how many cars still ‘ave gas in ‘em.”

You roll your eyes, snigger and put the peaches on the ground next to your thigh. “Nobody left to drive them,” you say, and stand, wiping your jeans.

Rowan watches you stomp away, the way your shoulders slump and fall and sighs after you. He picks up the can of peaches, still more than half-full, and sighs again, reaching for his bag. Don’t ask him how he knew, but he figured you wouldn’t eat, at least not out on the road, so he came prepared.

He puts plastic wrap around the opening of the can, secures it with a rubber band and tosses it into his bag. He finds you leaning against the bike, legs crossed at the ankles, frowning at the ground. Thinking, no doubt, and he knows what about.

Too bad you don’t realize that’s not your problem anymore. Shit.

…shit. How’s he going to convince you? Eh, he’ll burn that bridge when he gets to it.

“You got somethin’ against peaches?” he says, to pull you out of your head and you _what?_ with your expression. He holds up the spoon to you, waggling it, and you roll your eyes.

“No,” you tell him, waiting for him situate on the seat. “I’d rather have pineapple, is all.” You explain, swinging your leg over, and he grimaces a disapproving frown.

“Mm. Too sweet for me,” he says, thus affirming your earlier claim.

“Jeez, Rowan. You’re an old person.” You mutter to yourself, and he whips his head sideways to talk over his shoulder.

“What was that?”

You blanche, laugh. “Nothing. Nothing. Just said you were awesome, that’s all.”

“Uh-huh.” He grunts, and starts the bike, not believing you one bit.

Soon, you’re on the open road, wind blowing your hair, and stinging your eyes, whipping your clothes about, and it’s easy to forget what the world is like, just for a moment. That’s one reason you like the country; it’s basically the same today as it was the day everything went to shit. End of the world or no, it’s still just as open and untouched.

True to his word, he does stop every so often to check cars though you’re fine on gas. After you’d huffed the third time and taken to staring at him flatly, he’d just said, “Hey, abundance over efficiency, huh?” You’d let it go; if he was quoting the bible he’s worse than running on empty.

This last car, he’d peered inside of, squinted and tried to open the door only to find it locked. You’d been immediately curious. You’d asked what was up and he’d just said he didn’t know.

So, here you are, waiting on Rowan to get this pick-up truck open because apparently, there was something important inside. Fighting another sigh, you dig through the saddle bag looking for something other than peaches when your fingers brush smooth leather and you frown. You peer in, and find the book staring back at you, black faced and blank, and somehow that’s more taunting than if it had a title.

You look up, wondering why exactly Rowan brought the book with him if he had never intended to use it in the trade-off. It should be safe at home, in the chest, behind that lock only he has the combination to. Not here, on the open road, so easily stolen…

Glass shatters and you snap yourself alert, finding him on the other side of the truck, leaning through the window to open the door. You close the bag, and settle back on the seat, tapping a foot on the pipes in subdued worry.

“You find anything?” you call, not bothering to sound optimistic or the least bit interested. Because you’re not, really, you’re not. If it’s not the book, or Jace, you don’t care.

“Um-“ he shuffles around inside, paws under the seat, and shifts around the cab. The truck is in such bad condition that it creaks and bobs every time he moves. “A revolver, couple bottles of water, and…” he pauses, drapes himself over the benchseat to scrape along the floor. “half a bottle of rubbin’ alcohol.”

While Rowan decides if he’s made a good find, he crawls out of the car with his things in arm and makes his way around the back of the truck bed. You think about confronting him, demanding a reason for having the book on him, but seeing as how he saved your ass not too long ago, you give this problem some time to breathe.

He drops the water and alcohol in the bags, and you ask, “Didn’t find any ammo for that in there?”

He glances at you, shrugs his eyebrows. “No, but I’m pretty sure we ‘ave some back at the house.” He checks the chamber, finds it full, and empties it into his hand. 2 empty shells and four bullets.

You twitch a frown. “Random. What’s with the two missing bullets?”

Rowan tosses the shells aside, and shakes his head with a dimpled sideways smile. “I dunno.” He reloads the revolver, weighs it back and forth in his hand and then gives it to you.

You hesitantly take it, waiting for an explanation, but when he gives you nothing and hops back on the bike you tuck it into your waistband, and lean forward to wrap your arms around him.

Rowan lied. He does know about the two missing bullets, knows where they are: buried in the skulls of the two dead kids he found laying in the back seat. A note was nearby and it simply read: **Forgive us.**

They looked younger than Jace, and had been dead a while. Rowan wasn’t an idiot, he knew what happened. After all, he had found the gun in the front seat, on the floor, and the kids were in the back. Top that off with the location of the bullet holes- in the forehead -and he had pretty good picture of the situation.

He starts the bike, checks to make sure that you’re settled in, and then takes off. He spares a glance for the truck in his side-mirror, and hopes that whoever they are, they’re lying dead out there somewhere. A little morbid to give you a gun that killed a couple of kids in the backseat of a run-down truck? Maybe. But everything is morbid nowadays.

For a long time, nothing is said, and you don’t stop to admire the scenery or check any more cars. You don’t stop until the tank runs low and the sun changes color, dyeing the sky salmon pinks and royal purples, resilient dark blues, and soft orange.

While Rowan fills the tank, you chew a lip and watch the sunset thinking, _Another day gone, another day survived._ “Some Lana Del Rey would go great with this view,” you muse, smiling a little and Rowan peeks up, furrowing his red-brown eyebrows.

“Who?”

You snigger, shake your head. “Nobody,” you reassure him, watching clouds inch by on the horizon.

He shrugs, but doesn’t say anything. If you knew he listened to Lana back in the day, you’d never let him live it down. But he totally agrees, this scene definitely needs some Lana, or some Rolling Stones…maybe Bob Dylan. God, he misses music.

“What are we gonna do? Besides head back to the house?” you ask over your shoulder, wondering how much he’s going to lie to you.

“We?” he says, properly surprised, and grins up at you. “I thought you were a lone wolf? Didn’t need a partner, can handle everythin’ life throws at ya’?” he’s shit-stirring…and avoiding your question.

You sigh, rub at the bags under your eyes. “I can’t handle Jack-shit,” you run your hands through your hair feeling him staring at you. “But you’ll never hear me admit that.” You huff, stuffing your hands into your pants pockets.

He chuckles. “Right…” screws the lid back onto the gas can he picked up in Spartanburg, and tosses it into the ditch in front of you. “I dunno know, Y/N, honestly. Right now, I just wanna get home and regroup.”

You turn around to face him. “Regroup?” you scoff. “Kinda need a fucking group for that.”

He blinks at you, taken aback. And then…”Get on.” He hops onto the bike, doesn’t even wait for you to get on before he’s turning the engine and killing the possibility of this conversation in its tracks. He knows you’ll never let any of this go, you’re going to keep looking even if it kills you, and it almost has.

You frown deeply, maybe mumble a curse at him, but listen and resume your post behind him, just resting your hands on his sides.

Rowan hopes the reason you’ve been so pissy and distant is just because you’re hungry and tired, and not solely because you’re pissed at him. He knows you went through a lot of shit when you were kidnapped, you had told him most everything. You had hesitated in a portion of your tale, long enough that what you said afterwards made the silence beforehand questionable, but he hadn’t pried.

You had told him a little more about the Winchesters, and their third man. Told Rowan that he was otherworldly, to put it lightly. He had scoffed, tried to tell you that you were simply tired and had imagined this guy’s capabilities…but the way he had just appeared outside the church in the blink of an eye when Rowan rescued you…made him skeptical to brush it off.

You had relayed to Rowan that you were sure it was the trench-coated man that was the one who was finding you, locating you somehow, and Rowan didn’t know how to combat that. Some guy who could apparently teleport was keeping tabs on you…without technology of any kind.

Whatever, he was still going to keep you safe. Superman or no.

He didn’t know if keeping you and the book in the same place was a smart idea or a bad one. He didn’t know what the book was, or why you were needed. He didn’t know why the Winchesters were hell-bent on getting you and the book back, together. He didn’t know why these crazy cultists wanted the book, or why it had to be you that acquired it…life was so much simpler before the apocalypse.

So many problems…more than when he worked for the Russian mafia, and that’s saying something.

You’re just on the edge of the country, where grass fields give way to untended rows of crops and asphalt bleeds into dirt when Rowan rolls the bike to a stop, and idles. You wait…

And he doesn’t do anything except cut the engine.

“What are you doing?” you ask him, peering around his shoulder for a reason.

“Uh-“ he coughs a little in uncertainty, and then bobbles his head back and forth. “Thought I saw a light in the distance.”

“A light?” you ask him, heavy on doubt.

“A campfire,” he corrects himself, then leans forward on the handles, hands and most of his forearms dangling over and you slide your arms to the middle of his back, hands on his shoulder blades and stand on the footrests to look over his head.

It’s dark across the wide expanse in front of you, and squint hard enough for everything to go blurry. Counter-productive, but it’s the effort that matters, right? “I don’t see anything,” you declare dismissively.

He grunts. “Me neither,” then looks over his shoulder at you. “You smell that, though? Smoke.”

You cock your head, and inhale. Sure enough the scent of a campfire is heavy in your nostrils and you can’t believe you didn’t notice it before.

Rowan shifts, sits up and then stands.

“What. Are you…doing?” you ask him again as you fumble your balance because he gets off the bike and starts pushing towards the edge of the road. You practically fall off it in your haste not to end up in the ditch, and scowl at him.

“We’re goin’.” He nods his head in the direction he thinks he saw the fire, and you balk at him.

“Waaahhhyyyy?” you whine, tossing your head and letting your shoulders go limp.

At the bottom of the ditch, he lays the bike on its side and looks up at you, unamused. “Because, it could be an ambush party, or a few people, or someone with a sniper rifle…it could be anybody, and I don’t take chances.”

You purse your lips and huff.

“Ya’ got anythin’ ya’ on that makes noise when ya’ move, get rid of it.” He’s adjusting his shirt and jacket while he talks, tucking material, and freeing a pistol from its fabric confines.

You scratch at your forehead, and pull the revolver he gave you from the back of your pants, wondering how many ways the next 20 minutes could go wrong. You come up with a lot by the time you get halfway there, and most of them involve the both of you dying.

The scent of smoke becomes clearer, stronger, and all you can really do is follow Rowan through the tall grass and mimic his movements because you can’t see much of anything. Huh, this is familiar. Tall grass, middle of nowhere, can’t see…the only thing you’re missing for true déjà vu would be a Chevy Impala on the road somewhere behind you.

The little campsite is mostly just fallen logs, a big rock here and there, and trampled down grass. They’ve made was looks like a tent by throwing a tarp over the trunk of a fallen tree that rests on a rock. From what you can make out in the dark, there a two of them. A man, and a woman if the long hair and slim figure is anything to by.

Alright, you’re fine to leave them be. Just a man and a woman, nobody dangerous and certainly not an army. You grab at Rowan’s jacket, a little pinch of the material that suggests, _Let’s go._

Only he doesn’t. Instead, he crouches low and takes off for a large rock, behind the woman and you stare after him agape. He disappears into the dark, and you sink lower, knowing better than to try and follow him. You’d probably just end up lost, or tripping over your own feet.

The woman laughs heartily at something the man says to her, and the laughter is so warm that you know they’re a couple. That’s rare, in and of itself, but to find someone in the apocalypse? Damn near impossible.

You hear the man murmur something a moment later, curious and slightly worried and the woman groans in tired exasperation. You wonder what it’s about, what they talk about, how they talk about things…if they’re strong for each other, or if they know the future’s doomed.

Rowan has straight disappeared. No sound, no view, no presence of him. Just vanished into thin air and you seriously contemplate going back to the bike when he suddenly, unexpectedly, doesn’t give you that option.

Out of the blue, or rather, out of the dark, he emerges with a gun drawn and waltzes into their camp with nary a sound other than his voice. “Hello, fellow survivors.”

“What the fuck?!” the man yells, jumping up and Rowan shakes his head aiming the gun at him.

_What the Hell are you doing?_ You wonder, entranced, and shell-shocked in the itchy grass.

“I wouldn’t make any sudden moves, either of you. Unless you want today to be your last day…” Rowan says, and the man bristles from his place across from Rowan, on the other side of the put-out fire.

The woman wobbles a question at him. “Wh- what do you want? We don’t have much.”

“Really? I’d have to argue, Mommy-to-be. You don’t get preggers in the apocalypse unless you can provide.”

_Holy fuck, Rowan!_ You internalize and about jump up to stall this, stop wherever it’s headed but he glances at you quick as a flash and the look in his eyes says, _Don’t._

So, you don’t, against your better judgement.

“Come on, man-“ the guy says, and Rowan cuts him off, sharp and cold.

“How many more of you are there?”

The guy splutters, looks around with implication as if to say, _just us,_ and Rowan shakes his head again, until the woman speaks up.

“Please, it’s just us, really. There’s no one else.” She tells him, and Rowan sighs deeply.

But he turns his attention to her. “Where are you headed?”

The woman jumps her gaze between Rowan and her husband/boyfriend and stutters. “Uh- we…we’re headed to Pacolet. There’s a group of survivors there-“ she cuts off suddenly, and swallows hard.

Then her chest jumps and she retches, turning sideways to vomit in the dirt.

Rowan grimaces, stumbles back in disgust, and the man moves. Rowan sees it in his peripherals but is too slow to react, and you understand why he left you behind in the grass, in the pitch dark out of view.

You ask yourself if you can really shoot this man as you stare down the sight of the barrel, and find out a moment later when he raises his own arm with gun in hand and aims it at Rowan.

You hardly realize you’ve pulled the trigger before the man hits the ground, dead. You blank out for the next few seconds because your mind is going, _You just shot an innocent man. A father. What would your parents think of you now?_

You only come back when you realize the woman is screaming, sobbing, and you can scarcely see what’s happening, but it looks like she’s reaching for something in her clothes. You don’t bother to warn her against it, she wouldn’t listen to you anyway, and you don’t have the mind to threaten anyone right now…

But you do have a voice, a conscience, morals, and emotions, and all of them waken when the woman stabs at Rowan through a blur of tears and anger, and you can clearly see where this is going.

Rowan side-steps, glares at the woman as she trips and tumbles in the dirt…and he looks at you. Something unreadable and foreign in his caramel-candy eyes, something hard and unforgiving. But something just for you, a warning…a bitter apology, an admission. A curtain pulled back on who he is…

You stand on shaky legs, wobble closer, and everything slows right down the moment he pulls his gaze away from you.

You watch tears dribble down her cheeks, divots in the dirt where she rakes her nails as she readies to stand. You see Rowan narrow his gaze, eyebrows anchor down to cast shadows, his fingers tighten on his gun.

And you feel yourself stretch out a hand, open your mouth, take a step and-

“Rowan, don’t-!”

**BANG!**

You hear her hit the ground but you don’t see it because you drop too, shaken to your core and clamped around the ligaments. Rowan doesn’t spare you a glance or a word as he stomps his way to the man and pries the gun from his stiff fingers. He nabs one of their back-packs, takes another glance, and marches his way toward you, kneeling in the cold grass and shivering from something other than the temperature.

You’re still staring at the place you last saw her, but she’s hidden by shadows and distance, and weeds in the way, and you don’t respond when Rowan stops to crouch beside you. He watches your profile like one watches a movie for the first time: curious, enthralled, a little uncertain…

And then he swipes at your cheek, swallows quick, and drops a kiss onto the top of your head before standing with a squeeze of your shoulder. “Let’s go,” he murmurs down at you, soft, a fraction sorry, and you blink furiously.

He inhales…and exhales, grabbing your arm, coaxing you to stand. You don’t say anything as he wraps an arm around your shoulder and steers you away. It takes you a minute to realize why everything’s blurry, why he rubbed at your cheek…

You’re crying. And you don’t stop until it hurts to keep your eyes open, about ten minutes on the bike. If Rowan notices how you cling closer, or the way you hunch yourself around his shoulders, if he notices the way you shake against him…he doesn’t say so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't all for the Reader-Rowan chapter. A little more is on the way, just gimme a minute for it, yeah?


	12. The Regular Rules Don't Apply

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things have a way of working themselves out, right? I wonder...how exactly, this is all supposed to work out? It just doesn't seem likely, is all.

You retch in the tall grass, bent at the waist and hold your hair away from your mouth while Rowan watches from the middle of the dirt road, leaning on the bike. He had been wondering how you would react, the tears were a surprise but not unfounded. A normal response, especially for you; you’re so down-to-earth and kind hearted, of course you’d be a little shaken.

He didn’t think you’d be physically sick though. After all, the apocalypse had long since shown you its ugly side, he just convinced himself that world had painted itself grey for you. Clearly, he was wrong. Things were still all kinds of shades in your eyes, and he had to wonder what color he was now. What color he was before.

“Y/N?” he says, worried. You’ve been dry heaving for a good two minutes. You throw a hand out behind you, _Give me a minute._ Reluctantly, he does so, folding his arms over his chest.

You cough, wheeze for a second and groan quietly. You’re glad you didn’t eat any of those peaches, they would’ve just ended up in the grass. You breathe lightly, leaning on your knees, hands shaky…and just when you decide to turn around and talk to him, your stomach lurches again.

Those two gunshots keep ringing in your mind, and you see their bodies goes limp as they hit the dirt, it’s on loop. Repeating, hardly within a second of it stopping before you’re seeing it again. You can directly claim responsibility for the man’s death; you pulled the trigger on the gun that killed him. But you could also claim responsibility for the woman’s death and the death of her unborn child.

If you had stopped Rowan, or talked to him, convinced him to leave their camp…they might have been spared. They hadn’t needed to die: they weren’t a threat. They were heading in the complete opposite direction of the farmhouse.

Which begs the question: why had Rowan barged into their campsite and done what he did? What purpose did it serve? It was completely unnecessary.

“Y/N?” Rowan tries again, bracing his palms behind him on the seat.

“What?” you croak, wiping your mouth on the hem of your shirt.

“You ready t’go?” he sighs, perhaps tired, or stressed in some way.

You scoff and turn to face him. “I’m not going anywhere with you.” You frown, your voice cracking with lingering emotion.

He blinks a few times, waiting, for an explanation most likely. “What?” he sounds put-off, and that irritates you.

“What the Hell was all that?” you gesture down the road, toward the far distance hidden in length and shadow, and untamed countryside.

He tips his chin up, tilts his head a little sideways. “You tell me: you shot a man.”

You gape, stutter, and twitch muscles that show how mad you are: shoulders, hands, calves, all of them shifting. “I didn’t have a choice! _You_ didn’t give me a choice. He was going to shoot you.” You grit out, resting your hands on your hips, not to place them, but to curl your fingers into the fabric of your t-shirt.

“And I shot that woman because she was gonna to stab me.” He says easily, with lightness and a free conscience. As if he’s teaching the alphabet to a room full of toddlers.

You shake your head. “She was pregnant.” You weakly protest, as if that might change what happened ten minutes ago.

He scoffs, peers at you through slitted eyes. “Oh, come on, Y/N. It’s not like he was gonna to grow up to be a fine young man.”

You stare, mouth open in horror, open shock about how blasé he’s being. Like it doesn’t even matter.

“I know what you’re thinkin’. And I get it, I do,” he crosses his arms again, heaves a sigh, this one labored. “But that’s not how things are. What happened back there, what we did-“ you wince, and he continues. “That’s what it takes to survive. There are things we have to do, things we can’t live with…because nobody lives in the apocalypse, Y/N.” he laughs dryly, at himself for having believed the exact opposite of what he’s telling you for so long.

“We just survive.”

You shuffle your feet, chew a lip and try to ignore the rationality in what he’s saying. You try so hard to cling to your humanity. “But-“

“Alright. Change the scenario,” he pauses for a moment, and you don’t know it’s because he loathes to place you in this hypothetical. “The woman has the gun, and _she’s_ the one aiming it at me.” He hears your breath hitch, another sniffle, this one wetter, and he asks, “Do you still pull the trigger?”

You can see it in your mind’s eye, the people switched around, the danger still the same. You can so easily see her aiming that gun at Rowan, can see it down the barrel of your revolver because you’re ready to shoot her. You can see it…

And you blubber a quiet sob, slap a hand over your mouth, and back-pedal. What from, you don’t know: Rowan, yourself?

“You don’t have to like what it takes, you just have to be willing.”

The worst part is, is that you are willing. If it’s between Rowan or someone else, even a pregnant woman…you’d choose Rowan. You’re not so sure you’d kill someone in cold blood, but you’d definitely do so to protect someone you care about.

Rowan nods slowly, watching this Monet style painting of the apocalypse inside your head burn. His view hadn’t been slurred, so watered and mixed with color. It was more…Caillebotte than anything. Realistic, true to the colors and nature of the world, but with a glimmer of hope on the horizon, a chance for something good to come from the grey and dead things that had become life.

He watches it burn, can almost see the canvas peeling, paint flaking, the tint of the flames changing with the chemicals of the acrylics. He mourns the loss, thinking _What a waste._

“So,” he says, waiting for you to look at him, waits for these new tears to stop. They have to, eventually. You cough shakily, wipe at your eyes, and he cracks a small proud smile. “Are you willing?”

You groan, swallow back spit and snot, and dig deep. Deeper than you fathom you have depths, you dig until you find something new. “Piss off, Rowan. You sound like a recruiter for a cult or something.”

You sniffle one last time, and blink through puffy eyelids at him. You’re sure you look awful, like something the cat dragged in, but he smiles at you anyway. Proud, but infinitely more sorry than you’ve ever seen him.

“Let’s go home, huh?”

You bob an affirmative with your head, your throat sore from crying, and vomiting. You trudge your way over to the bike, receive a pat on the shoulder from Rowan, and slip onto the back of the seat while he puts a jacket on.

Only it isn’t a jacket, it’s a coat. A thick winter coat.

“Rowan.” You say, tone flat and he hums. “It’s spring.” You point out, just as you did last year around this time, and he grunts at you.

“It’s cold. Feels like Autumn.”

“It’s like 60 degrees,” you lean back as he gets on, and he huffs air at you, annoyed.

“You say ’60 degrees’, my boys downstairs say 30.”

You close your eyes, grimace. “You’re gross.”

He laughs. “And yet, you still love me.”

“Hm.”

You won’t deny it, neither will you affirm it. He takes it in stride, and once again sets you both off toward home. You hadn’t seen the farmhouse in close to three weeks, it would be nice to lay down in a bed, take a shower, see Duke. Rowan would probably try to stuff you full of food, you wouldn’t be surprised if he handcuffed you to the wood stove in the living room.

In the back of your mind, there’s a reminder to not get comfy. That somewhere out there the Winchesters are still looking for you, and their third man, Cas(?) was most likely at this very moment, tracking you down. Also, Jace is still out there too, God knows where. God knows what happened to him. And Emily…you just hope she’s alive.

If you’ve learned anything in the past few days it’s that anyone is capable of anything, and everyone’s willing. Everyone’s willing to do things they maybe were never capable of before. Like you: you’d kill anyone. Same with Rowan, though it seemed he didn’t need a reason.

You’re just mildly relieved he’s on your side, but if you’re being honest with yourself, you’re a little scared of him too. You had this view of him, this picture of a sun-tanned Aussie with a bright smile and easy-going attitude, harmless in his usual ensemble of a t-shirt and jeans. Now it had changed, and you didn’t know what he looked like anymore, certainly not harmless, and not laid-back.

You’ve got a lot on your plate, and more just kept getting adding with every day that passed by, and the days were going as fast as the wind beating at your face. Equally as relentless as well. You start to wonder if the people who opted out in the beginning had the right idea. They got to escape a lot of the fear, the desperation, the hopelessness.

Maybe it wasn’t cowardice. Maybe it was practical. If they hadn’t given up, someone would’ve just came along and killed them. Though you doubt it would’ve been without a bit of pain of some kind.

Those people that voluntarily bit the bullet weren’t as tired as you. They weren’t suffering anymore, or wondering what the next day would bring.

But you…you were wondering. And you were tired.

Tired enough that Rowan’s shoulder sounds like a wonderful place to close your eyes.

At first, he thinks you want to talk, so he turns his head and listens, waits for you to say something. But when seconds pass and the only things he hears is the purr of the engine and the wind roaring in his ears, he turns his head a little more and peeks at you quick.

Your face is lax and your eyes are closed, asleep. He’s surprised, honestly. You’d been fighting sleep so long it was as if you were on strike, resilient and angry at the prospect of closing your eyes. But he finds relief in your ability to sleep, gives him hope that he can coax you into eating. You were on strike against that too.

Your head lolls a bit, and your arms loosen around his middle as you slip deeper, and he grabs both of your wrists, keeps them pressed to his lower stomach. The last thing he needs is you falling off a motorcycle going 70mph.

Hindsight, maybe he should slow down, or even try to wake you up. But he was on a roll with crappy decisions lately, so he figured he’d add a couple more to the list.

 

The breeze is nice, if a bit nippy for late March, and he pulls his trench coat tighter around him. It’s quiet out here in the country, nothing but the sounds of nature to qualify as noise pollution. But that’s a bit shallow, the noises were just part of the aesthetics.

He watches fireflies blink and blip out of existence in the yard, hoping to find a mate mirroring their tempo of pulsation. Owls hoot and crickets chirp, and it’s so easy to lean back into the column of the stairs supporting the roof of the porch to appreciate the atmosphere, so he does.

There’s no one inside the house, and for that he’s grateful. He didn’t want to be here, he didn’t want to find you. But he eventually had to admit that he wasted enough time at that church feigning exhaustion. In truth, healing that bullet wound was nothing to Cas, he felt fine afterwards. He had lied to the Winchesters because…he didn’t trust them around you.

To them, you weren’t even human. You were just a target, an anomaly, something that didn’t belong. But what they didn’t understand was that some people were slaves to their fate, and they couldn’t break free of it.

Sam perhaps could learn to accept you, see you as a living being and not an instrument of chaos. Dean however…

Cas’s fists clench hard enough for bones to crack in protest, though the damage is only momentary and the pain unnoticeable.

He’s not so sure. He wants to believe there’s a chance, a sliver of forgiveness, a shred of sensibility in Dean, but he can’t. Not after the church. He had sworn to the Winchesters years ago that he would never read their minds, flit through their memories like the pages of a book. But that day, he had broken his word, and leaped through Dean’s mind.

Castiel knew Dean didn’t take pleasure in what he did to you, but the fact remains: it happened. And for one reason only; Dean doesn’t see you as a human being, a fragile- he can just imagine the look on your face at being called fragile -sensitive, teenage girl. No, he only saw what destiny claimed you to be.

And until Dean’s view of you changed, Cas would keep him far away from you. Because it was clear Dean would anything he needed to put an end to the apocalypse. Cas doesn’t think Dean realizes that he has to live with himself after everything is put to rights though. The thick-headed Winchester probably believes the re-set on the apocalypse will re-set his memories too.

But he’s wrong. The memories stay. All of them.

The high-pitched whine of an engine pulls Castiel from his thoughts and musings, and he listens to the sound bounce around the countryside, wobble in the distance and teeter disjointedly. You’re on that bike, along with the man who rescued you-

Yes. Rescued you. From the Winchesters. Not kidnapped.

This…Rowan Trescott rightfully saved you from them. Himself included.

He wouldn’t tell the Winchesters he found you, he wouldn’t let you know he found you. For now, he’d just keep tabs, make sure you were safe from other threats, and he’d wait.

The bike gets closer, the engine louder, and Castiel whistles, one long, low note. And Duke comes bursting around the side of the porch, jowls flapping and ears bobbing as he runs down the length of the wrap-around porch.

He skids to a stop next to Castiel and pants, excited and curious. Castiel likes dogs, they’re loyal to a fault, and genuinely kind, friendly, with zeal for the simple things in life.

Castiel smiles wanly, pats Duke on the head, which makes the American Foxhound thump his tail on the planks.

“You keep Y/N company, alright, Duke?”

The dog barks, and Castiel tears his attention away, toward the driveway where he can clearly hear the bike approaching. His day has come to a close.

Just as the red body of the motorcycle is visible in the looming dark, he disappears. Maybe he’ll take a walk in the forest, enjoy the night while it’s calm.

Rowan rolls up to the house, easing the brakes, and spies Duke on the porch, wagging his tail and keening excitedly. He kills the engine, sits a moment because he’s almost 100% certain that he left Duke inside when he took off a few days ago.

But you mumble in his shoulder, shift and shimmy closer, and he lets it go. He probably left the door open, he was a bit of a mess that day. Duke bounds down the steps and trots over, whining and sniffing and patting the ground in a little happy dance with his paws.

Rowan frowns a smile, and turns in his seat, letting you slide forward so he can catch you around the shoulders and slide you off the bike as he swings his own leg over. Duke sniffs at your shoes, having gone around to opposite side because Rowan wasn’t paying attention to him.

Rowan hooks an arm under your knees and hefts you up to his chest. You don’t even so much as twitch your nose. You’ll probably sleep until tomorrow afternoon, and Rowan will let you. You deserve it.

Duke is right on Rowan’s heels as he totes you up the steps and into the house. He trots circles around the both of you, barking softly, and Rowan hushes him. Duke droops sadly, pouts his way to the couch with dragging foot-falls, and drags himself up onto the fluffy cushions.

Rowan rolls his eyes, thumps up the steps hugging one side of the hallway, and feels fatigue start to claw at him as well. He thinks he’ll sleep in his room tonight, it’s been awhile since he laid down on his mattress. As been the pattern the last couple months, he’d fall asleep in his computer chair, or not at all.

The stairs open to a wider hallway with space on both sides, bedrooms to the left, reaching far past the length of the stairs and the railing to them. At the very end, there’s a bathroom, and right of the bathroom as you leave it is a laundry room.

Quin and Jace had the room closest to it, then Emily, then you, and finally him, he was the closest one to the stairs. On the right side of the hallway is another bathroom, this one bigger with room for a bathtub and shower, and down the line as you went was a small office, a sitting room for reading, and a game room.

Maybe one of these days you’d all sit down and play a game of Monopoly…nah, Monopoly doesn’t tend to end pretty.

He toes your door open, is met with slightly stale air, and scrunches his nose. He lays you down on your mattress, on your back, even though he knows within five minutes you’ll have rolled over on your stomach.

He coaxes your Converse off easily enough, you never tie the laces as tight as you should. He’s surpsied they haven’t flopped off your feet at least once. He places your shoes on the floor at the foot of your bed, and glances around for the thin blanket you always use.

He finds it thrown over your end table, and drapes it over you softly. You swallow, garble a noise and furrow your brow before rolling onto your side.

Rowan cracks a tiny smile, tucks the blanket further up. “Night, kiddo.” And leaves quietly, shutting the door almost completely.

He drags his feet to his room, doesn’t bother shutting his door, and slumps down onto his mattress, releasing a groan. He rubs at his eyelids, yawns quietly, and pulls the morbid revolver from the waistband of his jeans.

He stares at it in his hands…frowns, and puts it on the floor. He combs a hand through his coppery locks, kicks off his wingtip boots and lies down. His head has hardly hit the pillow before he’s out cold. And his dreams are hardly things of peace. His past plagues him, quick snapshots, and short audio clips of his worst crimes.

And then there’s you. Kneeling in scratchy grass with tears running down your cheeks. Only this time, when he reaches for you, you stand and take off into the dark. He tries to go after you, but he can’t, he’s stuck, something holding his legs in place.

When he looks down, he finds it’s the hands of the man and woman that are gripping his ankles so tight he can’t feel his toes. When he looks up, you’re gone, well and truly, and out of the darkness emerge more hands.

Some bloody, some dirty, some dainty and clean. Small, or calloused, big and thin. And they all reach for him, clawing, pulling him. Pulling him down, and he can’t even fight them off there are so many. The man and woman topple him over, and instead of hitting ground, he falls, slips through nothing except the color black.

They’re above him, jeering and laughing, watching him get dragged to the depths of this abyss by all these hands. And Rowan thinks to struggle, tries to, but something stops him.

The man and woman…are staring down at him from above with eyes black as coal. And everything shifts suddenly. The hands are gone, replaced by chains that wrap sharp and tight, and its suddenly loud with thunder and rolling groans of something inhuman. There’s screaming all around him, light flashes, chains jingle, and he’s suddenly pierced by them from out of nowhere.

Two through his chest, three through his stomach, and one into his shoulder. He goes to scream, but his voice is trapped in the back of his throat.

_“How many more of you are there?”_

Rowan hears his voice played back to him, out of view but somehow right in front of him.

_“Please, it’s just us, really.”_ Her voice, the woman’s.

“We lied. There are a lot more of us,”

Rowan twists his head, looking this way and that for the owner of the voice, but all he finds are more chains, roiling clouds of dark grey, and rust red, and then grits his teeth as the chains in his stomach rotate.

“And we’re coming for her…Rowan.” His name is mockingly sneered.

There’s a flash, a second where he can see, but it’s nothing conclusive. A well-trimmed beard, immaculate Oxford’s shined to gleam, a black suit-jacket…and then it’s gone.

“Tell Squirrel and Moose I said ‘Hello’.”

Rowan jolts awake, sitting upright, hands searching, patting his chest and stomach. No chains but-

He winces.

Rowan peels back his t-shirt and glances down. In the middle of his stomach is a large, molted, raised welt, burning to the touch. He swallows back a wave of nausea, grabs up the revolver, and stumbles his way out into the hallway.

“Y/N!” he yells, crashing into an end table on his way down the hall. “Y/N!” he calls again, and this time you come tumbling out, a sawed off shotgun in hand.

“What?!” you yell back, eyes narrowed. He’s yelling like it’s a state of the emergency, and nothing’s even wrong. “I swear if you woke me up for nothing, you bogan-“ you threaten him with real purpose and he opens his mouth to tell you stop being so hormonal and grumpy when you both get shut up.

Downstairs, the front door is blown off its hinges, and spirals into the living room, screeching and scratching and knocking over things in the process. Rowans glares down the flight of stairs, just barely able to see a pair of shoes on the threshold of the porch. He’s somewhat relieved to see they aren’t Oxfords.

“What the fuck?” you murmur, leaning over the railing, as if that will allow you to see anything.

Rowan rushes towards you, shoves you into his room, and you scowl. He points to the window, glances down at your feet, relieved to see you slipped your shoes on. Footsteps thump downstairs, leisurely, in no hurry, unlike Rowan who’s tugging the temperamental window open in stop-starts because the tracks are so old they catch.

Then they start whistling, some tune Rowan isn’t familiar with and he almost rolls his eyes about how dramatic the intruder is trying to be. It gets to about half-way before it refuses to budge any further, and Rowans turns around for you, and almost laughs at the absurdity of what you’re doing: standing your ground, aiming your gun at the doorway.

He snatches your wrist, drags you the window, and starts trying to shove you through it.

“Rowan-! Stop it- would you- “

“You have to get out of here, Y/N. They’re here for you.” He tells you quietly, lowly, and without his accent.

“Me?”

He doesn’t answer you, just grabs your shot-gun and tosses it out the window. They’re on the steps now, and Rowan begins trying to push you through the window again.

“I’m not gonna leave you behind-“

“-Goddammit, Y/N, you have to go. I’ll catch up, I promise,” he tells you, prying your hand out of his t-shirt. You stare at him, his wide, worried eyes, the bead of sweat rolling down his temple, and you know. You know this is the last time you’ll see him.

“Okay,” you say, even as your chin wobbles, and the strength in his eyes cracks. He knows too. He squeezes your hand, hard. And he says one last thing to you.

“The key is still in the bike. Go.”

And you do. You clamber out, backwards, and hold on to the ledge, peering below into the hedges. You glance up at Rowan, watch him nod, and head toward the doorway. Before you lose your resolve, you let go and fall.

Your stomach flip-flops as you drop and you close your eyes. You hit the bushes hard, and grunt as you’re assaulted by branches and scratched by them. You groan, crawl, and drag yourself out of the shrubbery.

You wobble to your feet, spy the shotgun a few feet away and stagger to it. You’ve just grabbed it when you hear gunshots break the silence. You jog towards the front of the house, ignoring the pain in your leg from the fall, and you don’t look back.

More gunshots as you round the side of the house, and you bite back the sob in your throat. Duke greets you at the bottom of the steps, whimpering, but unharmed. You’re grateful for that at least.

He follows you to the bike, wanting to go with you, but you can’t take him. But…

You reach into your pocket for the bandana you have stashed there. You hold it out for him to sniff and he does. Then you tie it around his neck as fast as your shaky hands will allow. Satisfied, you stow the shotgun in the saddle bag, and hop onto the bike.

Just as you had watched Rowan do a hundred times, you push the kickstand back, turn the key, rev the engine…

A bright flash inside has you looking at the house for a moment, giving you hope for Rowan. Him and all his tricks…he might be okay, you lie to yourself.

Duke whines at you, as if urging you to hurry, and you heed his advice. The driveway feels longer, darker than usual, lonelier, and you immediately dislike being the driver of this motorcycle. It doesn’t feel right.

An eternity later, which is only 10 seconds, you’re on the road, and you don’t even think about which way to go. You turn left, heading west and take off into the night.

“Bye, Zip.” You murmur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bye, Rowan. I will miss you dearly, you were a fantastic source of sass and wit and your presence will be sorely missed...by me. Anyway, hello, peeps. I have risen from the dead, for an unforeseeable amount of time. Figured I'd give you all a treat for waiting so nicely: A cliffhanger! I'm so mean.   
> Next Chapter (who knows when that will get posted) will switch back to the Winchesters and my OCs. Take it easy, lovelies. Life is rough.   
> Oh, the chapter title...I was going to name this one All Good Things....but then I decided on this one.


	13. What It Takes, and What We Deserve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Jeez. What is he getting himself into? This was a bad idea. Damn Sam for making him do this. And- Jesus -this Jace kid is carrying some heavy shit, he could be Dean's protégé. Ah, well. Soon enough, they'll find you and this little interlude will be over. He won't miss it. He won't miss them. Really. Not one bit. He won't miss Jace. At all.

April 12th (12 days since chapter 1)

 

The seat creaks on rusty hinges and loose bolts, and Dean stills, listening for changes of breathing. But everyone’s fast asleep on other flimsy benches, scrunched and small and most definitely uncomfortable. But dammit, they’re alive and that’s what matters.

Coyotes yip somewhere in the dark, but Dean doesn’t react except to roll his shoulders against the cool glass of the window he’s leaning on. They’re in a bus, hunkered down for the night…back in town, going back the way they came.

Dean would’ve asked why, but it’s the same direction you went and they may be a few days behind, but that doesn’t matter. Emily and Jace didn’t seem to mind when Dean proposed the idea. They were heading in a direction opposite of Pacolet so there shouldn’t have any problem anyway, but…

Out of curiosity, he had mentioned something about heading to the coast and got two firm “No.”s from it. Wanna guess? Emily and Jace.

West. That’s where you all were shacked up. Somewhere west of Pacolet, east was a no-go. He hadn’t pushed at the time because the prison was hardly behind them and it sounded like trucks were being loaded up. But after he had gotten everyone a safe enough distance from that town, he had asked, and Emily supplied. Easily.

Seemed they had earned her trust. She had told him that herself, Jace, and a couple others were staying at a farmhouse in Wellford. West of Pacolet. Bingo.

Dean and Sam were headed right for you. He could almost laugh about how convenient and cosmic it all was. How something was working out in their favor for once. But he’d keep his high spirits to himself. Probably would come off the wrong the way, considering.

It was just as they decided to spend the night in the bus, got situated that Jace asked a question.

_Jace frowned, squinting at the seats, the clothes and trash scattered around the floor. He thumped back to check that the emergency door was locked as everybody else picked a seat to settle down on. There was dried blood splattered across the door, and he stood a moment._

_“Hey, Sherlock,” Dean called from somewhere up front, and Jace peered over his shoulder._

_Dean held up a canteen of water, shook at him and then slumped down onto a bench. Jace nodded, turned and started to head back when something caught his eye under the farthest seat. A backpack. He crouched, mindful of the sling his arm was in, and his sore ribs that were wrapped tight. The sling was makeshift, just a torn-up shirt and belt that Dean had taken off some mannequin in town. The wrap on his ribs was genuine though, pulled straight from the duffle on Sam’s shoulder._

_He craned his head, stretched his arm and snagged the strap. He tossed the very light bag on a seat and tore into it, hoping for something. But all he came up with was a few cough drops, some individually wrapped mints and an unused glow stick. Shrugging, he took his miniscule find and dropped them into the thigh holster bag that Emily shoved onto him. He couldn’t exactly heft around a duffle or a bookbag with his arm in a sling so…_

_The adults were talking quietly up towards the front of the bus, heads bowed, and Jace huffed on his way back, miffed that he was being excluded. About mid-way, something rolled under his boot, caught on his heel and he stopped, looking down._

_A bullet, and an empty casing. Brow furrowed, he picked it up. A rifle round. He looked around on the floor for more and finding none, he cocked his head back. The emergency hatch was directly above him. He hummed._

_“Hey,” he called out, and three pairs were on him far more urgently than was called for. Dammit, did everyone think he was a helpless child? He held up the rifle round for them to see, and then pointed at the hatch._

_Dean was the first up with a contemplating frown, and took the rifle round from Jace, squinting. It didn’t look like there had been a sniper’s post on top of the bus when they first came upon it. Still, he threw back the lid. And a couple more rifle rounds fell, tinkling when they hit the floor._

_“Nice.” Dean said with a smile, eyeing the roof. He was tall enough to reach, but too big to fit. Same could be said for Sam. Jace bent down to pick up the stray rounds._

_“Boost me.” He said to Dean, who was stuck frowning at the hole in roof. And then he was frowning at Jace. “Well, I can’t boost you.”_

_Dean sighed. Back in her seat, Emily was fighting off a smirk, and Sam was hardly concerned about this new discovery; he was checking the area near the steering wheel, seeing what could be stuck in the nook and crannies of the bus driver’s seat._

_“Alright.” Dean relented, and stepped back a little, bracing his hands on his thigh. Jace slapped his good hand on Dean’s shoulder, just got his foot into the net of his interlocked hands when Dean grumbled, “Just- don’t fall, huh?”_

_“Not planning on it.” Jace retorted, placing his other foot on the top of one of the seats for extra stability. He had to be more or less thrown through the hatch: he could hardly pull himself up with one arm._

_The top of the bus was warm, pleasantly so, and Jace crouched a moment to enjoy the heat radiating from the metal. And then he got to scavenging. Much like the interior, there wasn’t much. Except a box of rifle ammo which he closed and tossed down to Dean who was staring up, waiting._

_He whistled when the box was dropped into his hands, almost half-full. Jace brushed aside random pages of a newspaper, a shirt, an empty sling bag. He found a few more bullets, a pocketknife, a lighter which miraculously still worked, a pack of cigarettes, and a compass. All of which he passed down to Dean, bar the cigarettes; Jace didn’t think he smoked._

_After Dean made a fuss about Jace getting down (Jace had miscalculated and ended up ramming his bad shoulder into a seat on his drop back down. He had complained it was because Dean was hovering near the middle of the aisle, but the older man wouldn’t hear it.) Jace handed over the cough drops, mints and glow stick to be added to the group of dwindling supplies._

_Finally, when everyone was situated and it was quiet, Jace broke the silence. “So,” he directed his attention at Emily who was tightening the laces on her shoes. “I haven’t asked because there hasn’t been a good time for it,” He leaned back into his seat listening to the whip and whap of her shoe strings._

_“What?” she asked, not bothering to look at him._

_He smiled wanly, looking out a window. “How’s Quin?”_

_Emily went stiff all over, her breath stuck in her chest, not able to utter a word. Jace didn’t notice, but Sam and Dean did, and they prepped themselves for this conversation. For Jace’s reaction._

_“I mean, obviously, she’s gone crazy with worry, right?” He chuckled a little, “How much she age? She’s gotta look like, seventy by now, huh?” He swiveled his head to regard her on the last question, his lips still tugged into a smile._

_But Emily was stalled, staring at her shoes while she tried to think of a way to tell him. A line of words would that somehow soften the blow. When she finally looked at him, something in her expression must have been off because his own faltered._

_“What?” he asked her, swallowing hard, attempting to keep his voice calm._

_She took a breath, opened her mouth once, twice, rolled her tongue around the backs of her teeth. And clamped her mouth shut, blinking her gaze away from Jace who was on the edge of his seat now, legs in the aisle._

_“Emily,” he said, firmer, but with more foreboding, more dread. And she looked at him. He didn’t ask her again, and she didn’t try to say anything. The apology in her eyes was enough._

_He stared at her, face going lax, then neutral when tears welled up at him. He broke his gaze, shooting his heavy eyes toward the floor, the other seats, the roof. About the time she sniffled was when he got up and took a few slow steps toward the back of the bus, everything bogged and hazy, muddled._

_He was breathing, but he wasn’t aware, his heart was beating too loud in his ears to hear anything else. Dead. She was dead. Gone. For who knew how long. She died, and he was locked up in a cell, helpless._

_“Buried her.”_

_He heard the tail end on a grief stricken waver, and swallowed back his own sorrow, tried to concentrate on information and not emotion. But if he was being honest, it was a losing battle._

_“How did she-?” he stopped himself, cleared his throat and let that sentence hang in the air while Emily gathered herself. His vision seemed detached, perception a few degrees off normal but he avidly ignored the way his senses were shifting._

_“She- she was stabbed.” Emily managed after a time, sniffling wetly._

_Jace nodded, cleared his throat. Nodded some more. Stabbed. She was stabbed. Which means she bled out. If she bled out, she died slow. And in pain._

_He could feel eyes on his back, concern and caution, and he was surprised no one tried to comfort him or edge him into a seat. All the better though. He stumbled, lurched toward the emergency door on shaky legs and all but fell out of the bus._

_He didn’t feel the throb of hitting asphalt on his knees, and somehow, he didn’t even feel the nausea before he was retching and gagging, aching his ribs in the process. All he could think was that while was dying, he was locked in some cell, waiting, observing instead of trying to get the Hell out._

_He should’ve tried harder to escape, should’ve done more. If he had escaped and made it back, none of them would’ve been out trying to save me. Quin wouldn’t have gotten herself killed looking for me._

_He was leaning his forehead on his arm, taking choppy breaths. He couldn’t help but wonder how many times Emily had almost gotten herself killed while trying to find him. How many times she had been hurt for his sake. He had to wonder just how much better off you and Rowan were._

_He growled, brought the side of his fist down on the road. “Dammit.” He can’t help but think that it would’ve been better for everyone if he had just been killed and not kidnapped. “Dammit.” Another hit to the asphalt. Another jarring pain._

_All that time, imagining the happy reunion, the bone-crushing hugs, the joyful tears. He grunted, “A fucking pipe-dream.” He gritted his teeth, frowned against the lump in his throat. The road was blurry beneath him despite being a few inches away._

_He wanted nothing more than to be at the farmhouse, kicking your ass a game of checkers. Or help Rowan organize and ration food and ammo. Help Emily gather things up for a dinner. Annoy the crap out of his sister until she was just about ready to shoot him. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t do those things now. Nothing would be the same._

_He couldn’t afford be the helpless child of the group. Not if this is what it wrought. If people died because of his weakness, he only had two options. Either to get stronger. Or remove himself from the equation entirely. No one else would die because of him._

_He rocked back, upright, and sat on his haunches. Only when the air began to chill did he get up and climb in. He said nothing after shutting the door, looked at no one as he sat down and stared out the glass of the emergency door._

And he’s still there, silent, and brooding, and impassable. He’s thinking, Dean can tell that much. But what about, he doesn’t know. Not exactly. Glancing at Sam slumped in his own seat, and then at Emily balled up on hers, Dean stands slowly.

If Jace notices him coming, he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t budge, not even when Dean takes a seat across from him. It’s quiet while Jace glares out at the dark and Dean thinks of something, anything to say.

“You blame yourself.” He’s not sure if it’s a question or statement, he only knows that it rolls off his tongue unbidden. Jace twitches, mostly in his mouth, and Dean takes that to mean ‘yes, I do.’. “Because she was trying to rescue you.”

Jace glances at him, his form covered in darkness aside from his face, and Jace is relieved to find no pity in it. He doesn’t want anyone’s pity. Pity is reserved for the weak.

“She was your sister- family. Nothing would’ve stopped her, and I’m sure had the situation been in reverse, you’d risk just as much.” Speaking from experience, that’s what he’s good at know. Sharing what he knows.

“And you’d be getting ready to tell _her_ not to blame herself?” Jace snips, hardly any venom, mostly just exhaustion.

Dean purses his lips, sighs softly, softly enough he isn’t heard. “Look, bottom line is: we’re all gonna die for something. Death isn’t random anymore, it’s been…narrowed down to a fine point. There’s no room for coincidence, or freak accidents,” Dean watches what he says flicker across Jace’s face, watches the way it sinks and settles like a rock at the bottom of a pond. “We choose it now: how we die. And if your sister died for you then I’d dare say it’s something she wouldn’t change or regret. Especially if she knew that you’re still here.” Jace blinks, furrows his brows and takes a second to swallow.

“I just…couldn’t help but think- hope,” Jace sighs, scratches at his jaw and pauses for a second, letting a coyote interrupt him. Dean resituates his gun- Emily’s gun -and listens to Jace patiently. “That somehow, we’d all get out of this relatively unscathed, you know? We’d all end up together at the very least.” Ace scoffs,

“And yet here we fucking are, one of us dead, and the rest of us scattered across the state, no way of knowing if the others are alive.” He sucks on his teeth, chokes out a laugh.

“You know, I can’t help but that maybe this is the ending we deserve.” He swipes at his nose, looks down at his lap as Dean wrinkles his own brow.

It’s silent in the cab of the bus, and Dean notices for the first time since he sat down that Sam isn’t snoring anymore and even Emily’s breathing is quieter. They’re listening in. Fine by him, he hasn’t known what true privacy is since Sam was born.

“What do you mean?” Dean asks him, glancing out and around, just in case.

Jace bursts a humored sigh that’s all shaky air and held back emotion. “We’re still here. We’re still alive,” he gestures between them with his good hand, the motion visible because the moon has broken through clouds. Dean bites the inside of his cheek, not exactly seeing how-

“Surviving is the worst thing we can do now,” Jace shakes his head, and grins sardonically. And then he grimaces, rakes a hand through his hair and sniffles, eyes downcast. The wind whistles outside, sneaking around cars and buildings, broken debris, curving through the bones of corpses.

Dean doesn’t say anything. He just sits, and hears something repeated to him from his own mind. Only now it’s from the mouth a teenager, mourning the loss of his sister, and it’s so much purer, so much stronger than the weight he thought he carried it with.

“What have you done to earn that right?” Jace looks up as he asks, the question rhetorical, but Dean thinks about it anyway. “What has it taken for you to sit here, to be one of the last men standing?” There are tears brimming in Jace’s eyes, and Dean doesn’t know how he knows but they aren’t tears of grief, they’re tears of regret.

“What have you done to survive?” Jace wavers, lips trembling as he breaks his gaze away. Dean slumps, feeling like something has just been scooped out him, from deep in his chest, and shudders an exhale. Jace hears the sound, like an affirmation that no one can survive without some kind of sin, some kind of barbwire on their soul, and he nods.

“You say we choose how we die now?” another question that doesn’t need answered. He looks at Dean, “Then I think we’re all going to die how we deserve.” He blinks, letting two tears fall, and turns his head to stare out the window.

For a long time, Dean is silent, unblinking. He’s counting, calculating, tallying, and resigning. And then he’s wondering, guessing, comparing deeds and evil doings, and submits to the general idea that it’s all the same.

“Well, if I were you, I wouldn’t bother counting sins; there’s no one to forgive you for them. Only yourself.” Dean sighs, long and hard. He won’t get any forgiveness, he won’t. Not from himself. Not from anyone. He can tell, as much as Sam tries to hide it, that his brother blames, judges, and even condemns him for what happened in that church despite not knowing the details.

He knows why Sam wanted to help Emily, it was to get him as far away from you as possible. Sam doesn’t trust him, at least not where you’re concerned. And Dean can’t even be mad about it. Not truly. Dean almost doesn’t want to find you. Dean’s dragging feet to get to this farmhouse, taking it as slow as he can. And he won’t admit- to himself or anyone else -why.

 

“Looks like it’s going to rain,” Emily comments, tugging at the collar of her shirt, humid air making her skin sticky, and Sam cranes his head back to squint into the sky. It’s overcast, but bright, and very hot.

“Might be a good idea to try and get a car working,” he mumbles to himself, but Emily nods all the same.

“If we can find one with wheels.” She remarks, glaring at the fourth car in a row with pancake flat wheels. Sam almost says something about the impala, and then clamps his mouth shut with a snap. The less they know…

Sam kind of feels sneaky, giving Emily and Jace nothing about their identity or motives while at the same time learning so much about them. And all without prodding. They’re so happy to answer any questions him or Dean have, no suspicion whatsoever. Oh, guilt. How did he think he was going to escape it in the apocalypse? It’s even more abundant here. And speaking of guilt-

Sam glances behind him at Dean whose low-browing the ground, carting Emily’s- who are we kidding, it’s basically his now -sniper rifle in his arms, striking his heels. That conversation with Jace had shaken him, raked him raw. And now he looks ragged, worn down to the bare bolts.

Sam wonders how long Dean’s going to last before the guilt collapses him from the inside out. Same with Jace. He looks the same as Dean, dragging and burdened, stripped down to the skeleton of who he is. The two of them are hanging back, wallowing in whatever it is they’ve done. And Sam has a broad idea of what it is for the both of them.

Sam was the one who wrapped Jace’s ribs.

He had stopped and stared for a moment at the myriad of scars, some small and thin, others wide and long. Some that had healed and were a lighter tone than his skin, and others that were red and angry. He had bruises dotting him here and there, each of them a different color, in different stages of healing. Jace had more scars than him and Dean put together. And Sam wondered about the history behind them, what purpose they had.

Because, for the most part, all the scars on him and Dean were from the family business: saving people. Sam wondered what Jace’s scars were from. Jace had remained blank and silent while Sam tended to him, he offered no explanation, or did not vent. Whatever they were, these scars, Jace intended to carry them on his own.

Sam twitches a there and gone smile thinking that Jace and Dean are very much alike. And then frowns at the thought. Just as he decides to turn around and talk, to say something to one or both of them, he hears Emily call his name from further ahead.

She’s waving at him, excited, and she’s standing next to a car. Apparently, this one has wheels. Sam glances behind him, sees Jace and Dean still drowning in their thoughts, and then jogs to Emily.

“Check it out,” she says, tapping her boot against a firm, full-of-air tire and tries to reveal just how hopeful she’s being. After all, they haven’t checked under the hood yet.

“Yeah,” Sam says, then notices that he’s frowning and shakes his head. “Yeah.” He tries again, a little more enthusiasm but still kind of flat and Emily peers up at him, pretty blues squinting.

“I’m…worried too.” She looks past Sam, at Jace and Dean in implication and gives a sympathetic smile before opening the passenger side door. Might as well check for anything useful. Sam watches dig through the glove box- a bottle of ibuprofen -and then paw under the seat, pushing it back to do so.

“I’m sorry.” He pipes up, scrunching his face around how abrupt it is, how clumsy.

“What about?” she asks, checking the center console. A box of band-aids. …sure, why not?

“I figured, when you said that those people took your family, I thought you just meant the one they kidnapped. I never thought- “ he breaks off, tucks his hands in pockets, watches her stiff back. And then she sits back, and turns her head to look at him.

“I never gave you any reason to think that far.” She winces a smile, and grimaces down at her lap before tossing the band-aids and ibuprofen at Sam.

Quick as a flash his hands are out of his pockets and catching what’s been thrown at him. “Still…I am sorry.”

She nods absently. A pause follows, and she rubs at her forehead, whets her lips. “Anyway, you wanna check under the hood? I’m gonna see what else there is.” Sam nods at her, steps out of her way and shoves the pills and band-aids into a pocket on his duffle.

Jace peeks up, just to catch that short conversation, to see it happen but not hear it, and catches from a hundred yards away the apology in Sam’s stance. He sighs, rubs at his eyes, the weight there, and kicks a pen. He didn’t sleep. He couldn’t.

“How are you doing?” Dean asks him suddenly, breaking their stone-cold silence of three miles. Dean had been in own self-condemnation and hadn’t been present enough to wonder about Jace’s state of mind.

“I…” Jace looks ahead, at the car Sam’s checking out. Still checking it out. If there was anything wrong with it, he’d have shut the hood by now. They have a ride to the farmhouse, depending on how much gas is left in it. Emily seems fine, and so does Sam. Maybe Jace was wrong, maybe not everyone was going to have a horrific death. Maybe it’s just him.

“Don’t know.” He finally admits with a tired shake of his head. He doesn’t know. On one hand, he’s perfectly okay with how numb he is. On the other, he’s a little wary about it. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel. He doesn’t know if he wants to feel anything.

“Hey,” Dean nudges his right side with his elbow, mindful of his ribs, and Jace grunts at him, _what?_ “Just focus on what’s in front you. Not behind you. Can’t change it anyway.” He says, more to himself than Jace, but the kid will never know.

“Yeah,” Jace nods grimly. “That’s the problem.” _Can’t change it. Can’t walk away from it. Can’t live with it. Just die with it. And looks to be a long time coming._

“Eh,” Dean shrugs. “It’s always been that way. We don’t get to live or choose anymore carelessly than we did before. Everything’s still the same, it’s just a little harsher, the consequences show up faster.”

Jace tsks. “Dude, I’m only fourteen. I was still in elementary school when the world ended.”

“Ah-“ Dean pops, and then he squints down at Jace, mouth somewhat agape. “Holy shit, you’re right.”

Jace snickers, swipes his tongue along the front of his teeth and cracks an amused laugh, short as it is. “These life lessons are _awful_.” He groans like it’s Dean’s fault.

“Sure are.” Dean agrees, smirking. “I’m just telling you what I know.”

“Yeah, you know anything optimistic?”

Dean smiles, watching Sam thump the hood of this car down. His little brother tosses him a thumbs up. “You’ve got people waiting on you. People who love you.” He claps a hand down on Jace’s good shoulder. “That was rare enough before. Now it’s damn near non-existent.” He gives his hold a good shake.

“Mm. I wonder…” Jace murmurs, glancing side-long at Dean. When a moment has passed and he still hasn’t said anything, Dean pipes up,

“Wonder what?” Dean spies Sam in the passenger seat, Emily in the driver’s, and tries not to scowl about having to sit in the back.

Jace shakes his head, flashing a dull smile. “Nothin’.” He breaks away to go to the driver’s side and slips in the back.

Dean blinks, stares at the top of the car and notices small wet spots from sprinkles of rain. Pouting, he throws the door open and ducks in. “Why the Hell do I gotta sit in the back?” he complains before he’s even shut the door after him.

“Well, maybe if you weren’t slower than molasses…” Emily says with a teasing smile in the rear-view and pulls out onto the road.

Dean sulks. “Well…someone had to…keep an eye on Sherlock.” He finally says, frowning at himself.

Sam rolls his eyes, and bends down to reach into his duffle. Jace glares at Dean flatly, obviously offended at having been ‘baby-sitted’ and Dean avidly stares out his window at passing scenery.

“Jace, here.” Sam says and stretches his arm through the two front seats to offer up a couple ibuprofen.

Jace looks between the pills and Sam, astonished, but grateful. “Thanks.” And his gratitude doesn’t stop there because next a water bottle is tossed to him. He drinks just enough to swallow the pills and tries to give it back, but Sam shakes his head with a smile and refuses to claim it.

Arm propped on the door console and face leaning on his fist, Dean’s smile is clandestine, unnoticeable. For a second he forgets that him and Sam aren’t actually part of this little group. For a second he forgets that he’s going to have to uproot and separate this family. For a second, he forgets what he’s done.

For a second, he forgets his mission, and muddies his loyalty. He almost believes there isn’t an _us_ and _them_.

“What’s that?” Sam says, and Dean shakes himself back to the present. Sam’s looking in the rear-view at Jace, a slight crease in his brow, and Dean turns his head.

“It’s a joke book.” Jace tells him, and flips through rapidly before he slows, thumbing a few pages.

“Oh, come on.” Emily groans at him. “ _Doon’t._ ”

“Hey, Emily.” Jace starts without looking up. “Knock-knock.”

She sighs. “Who’s there-“

“Why don’t you zip it?” Jace squints, skimming a page with his finger. Emily smiles despite herself.

Dean laughs, throws his head back with it. “I’m gonna remember that one.”

Jace accepts the fist-bump offered to him, smirking. And then he looks up at Sam. “Alright, here’s one for you…”

Dean leans back in his seat and smiles, easily. No lie or effort in it. He closes his eyes, and listens for a while. Listens to laughter roll around the cab of the car, humored groans when a joke is just plain ‘bad’. Before he knows it, he’s asleep with that smile glued to his lips. And he doesn’t dream of all the wrong things he’s done. Instead, he dreams of all the things he could do right. Beginning with you.

 

“Jace.”

“Mmm _what_?” he snaps.

A large hand ruffles his hair irritatingly. “Get up. Car’s out of gas.” Dean.

He groans, curls up tighter on his right side. “S’raining.” He says even though he doesn’t know if it is or not. He’s just being hopeful, and a little shit.

“Not anymore.” Dean says, looking out his window at Sam and Emily giving him amused smiles.

“Goddamn, I wish I had a camera.” She laughs outside, if only to stop herself from cooing. Sam bites on a smile, silently agreeing. Though, he doesn’t think he’ll forget this scene.

“Come on,” Dean tries again. “My leg’s going to sleep.”

 _What?_ Jace thinks, blinking his eyes open in curiosity. He’s left staring at the back of Sam’s seat, and Dean’s denim-clad knee. _Oh._

Jace sits up, eyelids droopy and yawns. “Sorry.” He tells Dean, and picks up his joke book from off the floor.

“It’s fine.” Dean says, strained for some reason. A reason he can’t figure out, and watches Jace slide out of the car, shoulders slumping, eyes-half open. It’s only as his door shuts that he realizes why. He’s worried, worried about Jace’s safety. Because he cares. Cares about whether or not Jace lives. He just cares.

“Fuck me.” He grunts at himself, and shoves his door open. _You goddamn idiot._

“Who’s Rocky and Bullwinkle?” Jace mumbles just as Dean gets out, in the middle of a conversation with Sam and Emily.

Dean meets Sam’s eyes, and they both sort of just… _Oh. My God._ With their expressions.

“Nobody important.” Dean interjects as Emily opens her mouth, and nods hard a couple of times. _Not today. No, no. Not today._

“We’d better get walking.” Dean declares exuberantly and plows forward without waiting for a response. They still have at least four hours of walking before they hit Wellford. They’re on the outskirts of Spartanburg now, the east side of the city, and little strip malls have become more common. Houses closer together, more roads branching off each other.

They’ve only walked about fifteen minutes before they all stop in their tracks. Another sign: Welcome to Spartanburg! Population: ------

“It’s that emblem.” Emily states numbly, shifting on her feet. Sam and Dean don’t say anything, just share a quick glance.

“We could backtrack to White Stone. Take 295..?” Dean wonders aloud, and Sam huffs a huge breath.

“That’s five hours in the opposite direction. Plus, two hours longer than just cutting through Spartanburg.”

Dean sighs, already nodding. “Yeah…” He bites a lip, and then shrugs, looking Emily and Jace,

“Well, it’s up to you then. You have experience with these yahoos. Backtrack or keep going?”

Emily taps a foot while she thinks, and Jace goes blank, mind galloping backwards to those months in the cell, the despair, the detachment, the fight ring.

“We should be fine if we keep a good eye out.” Emily finally decides with a hand on her hip. “But we’d better find a place to hunker down for the night, I don’t want to be out in the city when it gets dark.”

“I believe we’re of the same mind there.” Dean remarks, remembering that night on the highway. Fucking crazy nut-jobs.

“Right. You want to take point?” Emily asks him, taking a pistol from her shoulder bag. “Wouldn’t want you falling behind, heel dragger.”

Dean sniggers, quirks a brow. “Oh, she thinks she’s funny.” But he marches past her anyway, calling over his shoulder with a jab in his voice, an ounce of tease. “Hey, Emily. Knock-knock.”

Emily chuckles, taking it in stride, and hurries after him. Sam hangs back, an eye on Jace, who hasn’t moved. He looks paler, a little distant in the eyes.

Of course he’s hesitant about walking into Spartanburg. Those lunatics are here too. The lunatics that kidnapped him, locked him in a pitch-black cell. And as far Sam knew, put those scars and bruises on him.

“Hey,” he says softly, and Jace jerks in surprise, back-shuffling with wide eyes. Sam winces in his eyebrows, but offers a tiny smile of reassurance. “Come on.” And he jerks his head toward Dean and Emily who are bantering back and forth, shoving each other every now and again.

Jace swallows with a grimace, and his ribs throb at him mockingly, like a reminder. A reminder of what he’s had to endure just to survive. The scars as well, what he’s had to walk off. How he’s done things to other people that they can’t walk off. His stomach rolls harshly.

“Jace.” Sam says, and the kid looks at him, trepidation in his honey-colored eyes. “We’re not going to let anything happen to you.” Sam assures, and lays a big hand on Jace’s shoulder. “They’re not going to take you again.”

For a few seconds, Jace stares up at him, unblinking. And then the moment falls away like a dead leaf on a tree branch. Jace nods, eyes on the road at his feet, and Sam squeezes his shoulder in a brief gesture of comfort.

“Let’s go.”

Jace follows behind, at Sam’s heels, working to block his memories. So, he busies his mind with trying to count how many squares make up the plaid pattern on Sam’s shirt. He purposefully loses count in order to start over.

“Hey, check it out.” Dean calls from not far ahead, him and Emily had stopped to wait on Sam and Jace.

“What?” Sam asks just in time for a can to get chucked at him. He fumbles with it, turning it in his hands, trying to read the faded label. “What is-“ he begins, and looks up.

A semi-truck is crashed into a building a block away, the door up but the inside of the cargo hold empty. On the side is illegible writing, the name of some company. But there’s a picture to go with it, and it’s still discernable.

“Pineapple.” Sam finishes, sounding pleased.

Jace smiles wanly, peering around Sam. You love pineapple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I don't know where the Hell I've been. Honestly. I just- COULDN'T write. ANYTHING. I apologize profusely, I'm such an asshole to you guys *says this as if having an epiphany*. Anyway, comments would be appreciated, I'd love to know your thoughts on this story, and if you just want to cuss me out for making you wait this long...that's ok too. Take it easy, lovelies. Life is rough.


	14. Out With The Reason, In With Absolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shush. SHUSH! Would ya- -Shhhhhhhh-ush! -Would ya' stop? Sounds like the guy went to professional shush school. Yes, I studied at SHU..SH. Wait. Wait. That's not...that's not shushing. Where the Hell-? Who? What's going on?

April 16th

 

Four days since…

You stumble in your footsteps, eyes half-open.

You can’t remember if the blood on your clothes is yours or someone else’s or if it’s earnestly there. You don’t know if it’s real.

_A gunshot. Breaking the silence. An explosion, hot and roaring, earth shaking, bright. Angry. Yelling. And ashes like rain._

Your ears ring, your fingers twinge, the knuckles busted open leaking red.

_Pain. On your back, in your side. Something wet on your face, sticking hair to your neck. And light, sharp and harsh, too white. Shy away. Duck and run. But wait. Motorcycle._

There’s soot on your chin, outlining an oozing cut that stings and snaps at you.

_Won’t start. Have to leave it. Book. Need the book. More gunshots, keep head low. Screaming. Too much smoke. Can’t see, dust in lungs, hack it out, keep going._

The sun hangs high, a pendant in the sky, searing and uncomfortable. Your shoulder hurts, you think it might be out of socket. Even so, you keep the strap of your satchel where it is.

_The ground hurts. Glass. Get up. Stagger, stagger, leeeean. Woozy, dark red on asphalt. Yours. Hearing through water, vision weak, tips of feet dragging. On. Each. Step._

You’re still dizzy, stomach sensitive and going around in circles, and make yourself limp in the muscles that don’t hurt. Eyes on your shoes, you keep shuffling ahead, ignoring the wetness that spreads slowly from your ribs to your jeans.

_Leeean again. Fall. More red, dripping down your chin, wipe it away. Squint through the haze, filter the noise. Shoes, gunfire, tires, angry yelling. Heartbeat in ears, fast. Wobble upright, world tilting, lurch for the alley._

It’s quiet. Crickets and the occasional bird. Nothing else to talk about. A sign for a town. You don’t read it. West. Heading west.

_More shoes, behind you. But wall in front of you. Too close, too fast. Too clumsy. Brick in shoulder, jarring and cold. Twisting, brace for it. No breath when you hit, everything white and empty. Smoke thinning out. Leave. Arms, legs, willpower, and you’re up._

Wind in your hair, on your face. Cool, and too short to enjoy. Peaceful. Silent in town. No people. Everyone dead. Or gone. Cars on street. Trash in road.

_Alley is narrow, space bracketed small by dumpsters, too cramped. Can’t run. So shuffle and stumble, listen for following footsteps. Fingers sloppy, looking for waist band of jeans. Shirt in the way. Someone’s in the alley. Fingers still fumbling, footsteps still coming._

Door open on shops, windows smashed. Rest against a truck, leave a large spot of blood on the paint, and step- miss the concrete -step- misjudge the distance -STEP. Up on the sidewalk. Mistake reflection for someone in window-

_Cold. Metal. Grip it! Slippery, sliding, weak- got it! The world rolls back, sky dropping, can’t focus. Ground is suddenly there under knees. Footsteps close, one dumpster away. Breathe. Pull it in, wheeze, wonder why it hurts, exhale. Turn head, see hazy figure, liffft arm. Don’t think. Puuuuuull trigger. Loud, makes ears hurt, wince. Watch a person die, gasp for breath, whine in pain, steady aim, shoot again. And leave._

-back-pedal, slam into post box, lose air. Bend over, feel blood gush, head go light, hand breaks fall. Arm wobbles, legs shake, jaw drops open and you choke, rasping for breath. Nothing. It doesn’t filter through. Can’t hold it in lungs. Gone before it’s there. Spots. One, two…twenty. Dark around edges. Dark everywhere.

 

…

_Ow._

…

ShhhSHHHshhh

_Don’t shush me._

SHhhhhSHSHH

_What?_

SSSSHHHhshshshh

“Jeez, you go to shush school or something?” Oh, that feels awful coming out. Everything feels awful. Nothing remotely feels like it belongs where it is. It hurts too much.

Something cool on your forehead. Feels nice. Head tilted up with a hand on the back of your neck. Twinges achingly. Something at your lips…water. Cold and refreshing. Tiny sip. Need more. A gulp. You reach for it, and whoever it is obliges.

A few swallows and you feel heavy. The cup is taken away. Your head settles back down on your pillow, and you fade out again, never getting the chance to open your eyes or ask where you are. Ask who’s here.

 

…

Shh…shhh

_Again, with the shushing?_

Shh..

_What, am I living too lou-_

_“Shh…”_

_Wha-?_

_“Sh.”_

_No. No…_

_“We’ll go slow.”_

_Nuh-uh. No way._

_Your hands sting, but your wrists are numb, tethered tight. Cheek hurts, jaw smarts, can’t open your eye. Familiar. All of it._

_Desk underneath face, filing cabinet in corner, old couch against wall, and warmth on your back, thrumming and human. But…_

_Something’s different. Off._

_The paint on the walls is peeling, rust spreads on the metal, spiders like frost on a window-pane, mold on the couch cushions, eats away at the fabric. The wood cracks, splinters in places, varnish disappearing like magic._

_The mean scratch of calloused fingers on an untouched entrance, the entrapment, the claustrophobia of flesh and muscle. The scent of leather, sweat and gunpowder as it rolls tumbles over your senses. Senses that you can’t shut down for some reason. Not like before._

_There’s the burn, the stretch, the malicious friction, and the tears you don’t remember shedding. It’s perfect déjà vu, perfectly awful. The slight pause where he waits at your already sore opening with another digit._

_The interruption._

_…_

_The interruption. Where is it? Where’s Sam?_

_A chuckle you feel more than see, a heavier lean over you. “Sorry, babe. S’just you an’ me.”_

_What? No. No, that’s not right. Sam’s supposed to knock on the door._

_But he doesn’t._

_It’s a quick shove with no finesse or attempt at subtlety. And it’s agony, makes you see spots, stomach muscles clench in refusal. You gasp sharply, the sound wobbly and wet on tears._

_“Mmm.” He hums, wiggling his fingers, drawing a pained whine out of you. “Tell me about it, baby. Tell me.” Withdrawal, callouses catching, and insertion with more force, rough._

_Your chest heaves, air locking in your sternum and you think you’re going to throw up. But you’ll probably choke on it if you do, so you clamp your jaw shut._

_“Getting shy on me?” He asks, blowing breath along your neck. Then his teeth sink in like knives and a cry claws itself out of you. “At’s better.” He praises, licking a broad stripe through warm wetness. He rubs against you, jolting your hips a couple inches, making his fingers snag-_

**_This isn’t possible. This isn’t even real. Just a nightmare. None of this is happening._ **

ShhhShhh

_Great. The Shush Master is back._

SHHHH…shhh

_Welcome to the party. May I take your hat and coat?_

“I don’t have a hat.” A voice tells you, gravel-deep and rumbly, and it pricks at the back of your mind.

Shhhh. Shhh

_What? No one’s shushing?_

“It’s the rain.”

_Oh. Makes sense._

“Y/N, how do-“

Gone. Back under. Right back in. Exactly where you left off.

_Another push at the insistence of his hips, his fingers still, and you shudder for air, the inhale wavering._

_“Hmm. Gonna be so nice.” He mutters, taking his fingers out. You grit your teeth, blooming pain in your jaw, preferable in comparison. He’s gone. Just for a second._

_His hands grip your waist, slide up, down, past the waistband of your jeans and under your panties. And tugs the material, drags it, pulls it, and you break._

_“Dean, stop. Stop-stop-stop!” you wail, tasting saltwater, but he doesn’t listen, just continues jerking your jeans and underwear off your legs. Your shoes slide off easy enough, they’re always loose anyway._

_“Please! I’ll tell you where the book is!” you plead, pressing your forehead into the desk, breath bouncing back at you off the wood._

_He chuckles, and you flinch when you hear the sound of his belt buckle jingling, clench your legs closed and hold off your tears to hear what he has to say._

_“Shit, Y/N.” He sidles right up behind you, pushing that hard flesh into your backside, laying the length at angle you can analyze. You jerk away as best you can, chopping intakes of stale air on tears, whimper when a large hand grabs the back of your knee, pulls it up._

_“I don’t care about the book,” he chuckles, squeezing your leg, and levers away to dip, get the head of his cock at your opening. “Never cared about the book,” he muses, nudging, pushing at the folds, listening to you hiccup on sobs._

_“Gonna make you scream.”_

 

You bolt upright, sweating bullets and whimpering on fear, and you don’t even feel the protest of every muscle in your body to do it. You lurch sideways, chest heaving and gag, stomach clenching, ribs pulling, squeezing your other organs.

You bite and gasp, and shake, and shut your eyes against tears. You drag breath, cold air, and don’t think about how it hurts, you just do it until it’s an easy one-two rhythm. It’s raining, somewhere, hitting some kind of window or roof.

It’s too dark to see where you are. But you can feel blankets under you, cushioning a hard floor, a concrete floor you realize as you drag your hand around. Everything feels like lead, and bends as well as it, but you push yourself into a sitting position, and blink hard into the dark.

You wonder where that other person went, and if they left water. You pat around, searching cluelessly, and knock something over. You wince, tremble your hands over, grab.

A lantern. After some sluggish fumbling, you manage to turn it on and squint. More concrete, metal walls, hooks hanging from the ceiling.

A meat locker. You’re in a meat locker. That’s comforting. It’s clean at least.

Your satchel is in a corner, rumpled and looking suspiciously empty. “Fuck.” You whisper to yourself, wondering where it could be. You shake your head after a moment.

_Not the most important thing._

The light shines on an object, glass, and clear. Water. A jug of water.

Your mouth feels like cotton sprinkled with sand. You reach for it, stop. What’s that sound?

You strain to listen. _Tap…tap…tap._

Footsteps. Presumably the person that saved you.

_Let’s hope they’re nice._

A door opens on the far end, and it’s too far to see, the light of the lantern doesn’t reach that far. You swallow hard, and wait for this person to say something, to walk in. But they don’t do anything.

Not for a while anyway. A couple quiet steps towards you, and a vague image, a weak outline, kind of there colors become visible.

White. A white shirt. Impeccably white because you can tell what color it is even in the dark. Something resting in the middle of it, fabric, dark. Is that…is that a tie?

_Holy mother of fuck! It’s-_

“Cas!”

…

You’re worried, pissed, wired with heavy limbs, trying to think ahead, weigh the past against the future, consider possible escape routes.

“How are you?”

Is he kidding?

You scoff at him.

He takes a couple hesitant steps forward, more light hitting him-

“Stay the hell away from me.” You bite, injuries and needs and wants forgotten. All that matters is that you’re stuck in a small space with a kidnapper whose motives are against your best interests.

He stops abruptly. Lets a pause settle, and then crouches, balanced on his toes. “Y/N-“

“Fuck you.”

“-I deserve that.” He sighs, and you think he chews at a cheek but it’s too dark where he is to really tell.

Another break in words, where he seems to get smaller and you seem to fill, angry. He scratches at his chin, sighs again, shifts on his feet.

“I’m sorry.” He says, meaningful and articulate and it makes you prickle all over in indignation. “I- I shouldn’t have left you in the hands of-“

“Fuck you and fuck off.” You interrupt, not wanting his apology or to hear someone say _that_ name.

“I just saved your life.” He shoots back with a little snip in his voice, and you glare harder in response, irritated beyond words. “You would’ve died-“

“Don’t care.” You hiss, and then blink at yourself.

Castiel sighs, deeper, closes his eyes. “Stop interrupting me.” He waits a moment, listening for your input, and after he receives none, “I don’t expect any forgiveness, nor do I deserve it.”

_No, no you do not._

Castiel’s expression falters, weakens, and he bows his head. “I won’t let them anywhere near you.”

_Oh- what?_

“They can’t be trusted with your safety-“

“And you can?” you snap at him, wishing you weren’t so weak: you’d shoot him if your bag wasn’t so far away.

“Fair enough. You have no reason to trust me. Not after what I dropped you into.”

You scoff again, toss your head. “Like you know. You don’t have any idea.”

He exhales slowly, raises his head, and drops to rest on a knee. “I know.”

“You don’t-“

“Y/N-“

“have the damndest idea!”

“-stop interrupting me…”

_Don’t tell me what to do._

“I’m an angel of the Lord-“

_Some angel. Choosing sides with kidnappers and…_

“I read Dean’s mind that day in the church. Yours too.”

_Oh. Okay…right. Fine._

“I made a mistake trusting them with your life. I see that now.” He furrows his brow, distraught with himself and his blunder.

“Not them.” You say. You rub at your arms, feeling your skin crawl. “Just-“ _Dean._

He frowns at the way you cut yourself off, the sharp swallow, the fact that you can’t bring yourself to say the oldest Winchester’s name. Dean can certainly claim responsibility- Castiel doesn’t doubt that Dean is killing himself of what he did -but so too can he.

He, ultimately, was the reason you were caught. The only reason you fell in the clutches of the Winchesters and their black-and-white view of things. The only reason you ended up in the darker spectrum, at the merciless mercy of a hunter.

“Yes.” Castiel blinks wearily, feeling the lingering effects of using his grace. “Dean is…” he fumbles for a word, “broken.” That sounds right. “In many ways. He’s put himself back together- more times than perhaps he’s aware of-“

“I don’t want to hear about him.” You murmur on an undercurrent of ire. And if you’re being absolutely see-through, you say it with hate. You don’t want any reason to forgive the man. He doesn’t deserve that. And you don’t even care if he actually does deserve it: you won’t give it to him.

“Of course.” Castiel says, clamming up. He stands, digs in a coat pocket and pulls something clunky and shiny out. He bends down, lays it at the edge of all your blankets and you can see it.

Your revolver. You look up at him, confusion in your eyes.

“It won’t kill, or even injure me,” he starts without prompting, and doesn’t scold or blame with his voice, just relays information. “But if it will help you to feel safe around me…” he trails off lightly, blinks in the low light, takes your silence in stride and then says, “I will be outside, keeping watch.”

You watch him leave, counting the seconds until he’s out of your sight. When he’s gone, you fiddle with the blankets around your waist. And then you jolt in realization.

You throw the blankets off, hike your shirt up and look for the gushing bullet wound under your left breast. But there’s nothing. No blood, or hole or even a scar. Your midriff is blemish free, spotless. And then you notice that your shoulder doesn’t hurt anymore, it doesn’t pop and grind against the joint.

You flop your hands down beside you in a daze, wide-eyed and struck dumb.

_Did he…heal me?_

…

You wake slowly, blinking around the grit and dryness, and try not to be alarmed over the fact that you don’t even remember laying down. Your head feels burdensome, like someone poured cement in your ears while you were sleeping, and you roll it back and forth on a stiff neck.

You drag yourself up on elbows, head wobbly, and peer around. Empty. Just you. He hasn’t come back in since he left. You rub at your eyes. You don’t have the slightest clue how long it’s been since then. You don’t know how long you’ve been out: collectively speaking.

“Okay.” You murmur, clearing your throat. The lantern shines beside your pillow, pushed up against the wall, the water next to it. You reach for the handle, practically crazy for a drink of water.

Your fingers curl…but it’s too heavy. You can’t get a hard grip, it’s like all your muscles have fallen to sleep on you, they refuse to carry substance with their movements. You groan pitifully. But give up on it for now.

On shaky arms, and quivering legs you manage to roll and rock and slide your way to your knees, huffing and puffing like you’ve ran a marathon. The revolver stares at you from the foot of all your blankets, and you close your eyes.

Okay. Clench thigh muscles. Fucking Hell- what muscles? Everything went on vacation, left you here like a boneless meat suit-

“Ohh, fucking get up.” You growl at yourself, and lurch straight up to your feet.

_Oh. Oh. Hoohkay._

The floor is cold on your bare feet, but it’s there and sharp enough to get your mind focused. You stagger forward, lose your internal hold on your stomach and snap your eyes shut. Ugh, everything’s so tight, but weak. Like your tendons have turned into zip-ties clasped to one another.

You don’t know the distance to the door, but it’s agonizing, and age-long. You measure it in throbbing heartbeats that pound in your head. You lose count after fifty, mostly because the counting takes effort you don’t have, takes attention you need to make sure you don’t fall flat on your face.

Castiel left the door cracked open. Good. No way you could pull the fucker open. Not today.

It slides back easy enough. Straight into a tiny kitchen probably 6 x 6 would it not be for the stove, counters and sink. It doesn’t have a door, just an archway that leads out into the front counter. Castiel’s on the other side of it, sitting at a table near the window, expression stony.

It’s light outside, golden, and you can’t tell if it’s sunset or sunrise. They both reach that middle point of gold before they slip toward opposite shades.

You pad softly, sluggish, using the counters to steady yourself. You’re sure he knows you’re there, you’re not exactly sneaky, and he’s an angel. You doubt he can be snuck upon.

You lean in the doorway, not sure what you’re doing, why you’re up. But here you are, shivering in the chill. Or maybe it’s just because the muscles in your legs have been replaced with silly-string. Who knows, at this point you’re not convinced you’re genuinely awake. You could still be dreaming for as lucid as you are.

But he turns his head, looks at you in the dimness of fading sunlight with an expression you can’t read. It’s regret. You don’t know it is. Because since the end of the world, nobody’s had room for it. People don’t regret doing the bare minimum it takes to survive. You haven’t seen regret in a person’s eyes for a long time.

“Y/N.”

You break your stare at him, drag it towards a table in the corner of the room, and say the first thing that pops to mind. “Do you have the book?”

His chair creaks, the only sign that he’s affected by the question. “Yes. It will be safer with me.”

_Okay then. Not like we haven’t kept it safe for a year._

“No faith in humanity, huh?” you twitch a wry smile, keep your eyes locked on a shadowy section of furniture.

“Lately, no.”

_Fair enough. There’s nothing worthy left in this world. Not anymore._

“What are you doing? You should be resting.” He says, turning in his chair. Sunlight hits the side of his face, highlighting the tone of his skin, making his blue eyes infinitely richer.

You shake your head. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” You concede, feeling your legs quiver, head go a little fuzzy. “I just-“ What to say, and how to say it. It falls on you like a ton of bricks: conversation. And you really don’t have the energy for it.

“It can wait. Whatever it is,” Castiel decides for you, stands. Glances out the window with a small wince, and then, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be making decisions for you.”

You crack a smile, “No, on this count, you’re right.” You slide to the floor with a giant sigh, knees slapping hard on the tile. You’re still leaning against the archway when he rushes around the counter.

“Y/N.” you guess he’s worried. Don’t know, haven’t spent a lot of time with the guy.

“Just- have a lot of questions.” You mumble, blinking heavily at him as he kneels next to you. He squints, stares, critical. “So confused about-“ you gesture widely with a limp hand, and he tips his chin at you, not responding.

“You know?” you ask, tongue going fat and clumsy. “Naw. Y’don’t. Bet y’know evverythn.”

Slowly, his hands find their way to your face, holding it steady, palms on jaw, thumbs on cheeks and he frowns at you hard.

“Y/N, you’re burning up.”

“Yeh. Wi’ queshh- quesss..” There’s a moment, past the exhaustion and tilting vision, the twisting perception that is your vision, your _here and now_ , that you become crystal clear and you realize just how tired, how run-down, how warm you are, and you think _Oh, no. Not good. Bad. Sick. Very sick._

“Questions.” He finishes for you. He’s afraid if you keep talking you’ll end up biting your tongue off. “I’ll answer your questions later.”

You blink at him, low-lidded, dim eyed and slump. “hands’re cold. S’nice.” Coherency is going out about as fast as morals and optimism.

“You’re shaking.”

“M’not. I’m Y/N.”

“Alright. Back to bed.”

You’re already half-asleep even as he says it. He lifts you like you weigh nothing, carries you like you’re made of glass.

By the time he actually gets you back to ‘bed’ you’re completely out, deep in sleep. He doesn’t know what to do.

He’s weak himself. Healing the worst of injuries zapped him almost empty, all he has is his limited supply of human knowledge.

He doesn’t know what to do.

He almost laughs at the thought that Sam would know exactly what to do.

Oh, the irony.

He shakes his head. He’ll figure something out. He doesn’t need them right now. Right now, you need him.

So, he’ll figure something out.

He will. He doesn't have any other choice.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yooooooo! How are you? Me, I'm good... I have no idea what to say about this chapter. I'm sure y'all wanted to see some badassery, but no. Not today. Sorry. I'm also sure you want to know where Reader is. Well, too bad. That's part of the plot. Love you all! I swear. I do. Marry every one a' ya if I could. C'ya.   
> Take it easy, lovelies. Life is rough.


	15. I Thought These Things Didn't Matter Anymore.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is he doing? I mean, he knows what he's doing, but not what he's DOING. He has a feeling the next few days with you are going to be very tiring if the last couple of hours are anything to go by. On the other hand, at least the both of you are out in the middle of nowhere, miles away from anyone. That's some kind of luck.

The next time you wake up you’re out of it, mind millions of miles away. Castiel sits next to you on the cold floor, watching, waiting. Waiting for you to get worse or better.

You shake violently under the blankets, mumbling noises that he thinks are supposed to be words, waddling your glassy gaze around like you’re searching for something. He watches a bead of sweat roll down your temple into your hairline, frowns.

Gone again. Back into the fog.

He’s been here for three hours, and somehow this is a worse wait than before. After he healed your injuries it took you a full day to wake up. Now, you wake up sporadically and in declining fashion each time you open your eyes.

Castiel is tired. Which speaks for itself, this situation. He could legitimately _use_ sleep. But he fights it valiantly, determination to stay awake set in stone. He dabs at your forehead with a washcloth, swipes at your apple-red cheeks and neck.

He needs more water, blankets, medication. The blankets aren’t a problem, there are plenty of houses, buildings, cars around town that blankets aren’t a real worry. Water is next in line. He caught a lot rainwater in pitchers and buckets, but he hadn’t foreseen you becoming ill so he hadn’t laid out many containers.

Medication.

Castiel wrings the cloth out over an empty bucket, listens to you shiver. He’s doubtful that he’s going to find anything in town. It’s more a village than anything and has most likely been picked clean. And also…

He’s worried about what might happen while he’s away. It’s very possible you could…

He stares down at his hands, scolding himself. His indecision, his helplessness. He’s never been in a situation quite like this.

Once again, he finds himself thinking that Sam would know exactly what to do.

Sam would go out into town and turn it upside down looking for meds. Of course, that would mean Dean would stay behind, keep an eye out. But Castiel didn’t have anyone to keep an eye out. It was just him.

He sighs, drags his gaze back to you.

You twitch, furrow your brow in your sleep. Mumble something, frown, jerk your head sideways.

What did he say?

That he’d figure something out?

And this is it?

Sitting in the dark, dabbing at your forehead, waiting for you to kick off?

He shakes his head, dunks the cloth back into water, squeezes it.

Can’t help you if you’re dead.

He lays it back on your forehead gently, presses the backs of his fingers to your burning cheek, and decides.

“I’m leaving to find medicine for you. I will return shortly.” He tells you, uncertain if you can hear him or not. He tucks blankets up around you, brushes hair back from your face and stands.

He’s uneasy about leaving you, but even more so about doing nothing. He’ll just have to be quick about his search. He hesitates to shut the door, does it anyway because what could go wrong from shutting a door. Probably better to shut it.

Who knows what you’ll do next time you wake up? You should stay here, where it’s safe.

Castiel wanders to the back room, a simple office for the owner of the diner and sifts through drawers on desks, cabinets, a cupboard for coats. He comes up empty, as expected. He sincerely hopes the rest of the town can provide better.

Next, he checks the truck outside. Finds a thin blanket across the front seat, a couple granola bars in the glovebox. He won’t admit it, but the longer he is away from the diner, the more he worries, the more he panics. The guiltier he feels.

He hurries across the street to a nondescript house, blanket under arm, granola bars in pocket. The entryway is small, short with an end table shoved up against a wall to the left. On the right is a closet which Castiel tears into.

Coat pockets turn up nothing except chewing gum and loose change…and a condom. Nothing useful.

He does snatch a pillow from a shelf as well as a sheet for a bed. He needs more hands.

Venturing into the house further reveals a quaint living room, a well-used couch, beaten up coffee table, flat-screen tv. Nothing on the coffee table except an empty ash tray, country magazines, old beer bottles. Promising. Addicts of all kinds, there’s bound to be medication around here somewhere.

The kitchen. Dusty, stale, cold…untouched. The cupboard and cabinets are all closed, remnants of a meal sit on the island counter. Long picked clean by mice, but…

Whoever lived here left in a hurry, didn’t even bother finishing their food. It’s safe to assume the rest of the house is that way.

This town must have been evacuated. It makes sense considering all the cars that are still left parked in town. The fact that nothing has been boarded up, or the suspicious lack of spray painted warnings on buildings and signs. No ‘TRESSPASSERS WILL BE SHOT’, or ‘LOOT AT YOUR OWN RISK’, ‘WE WILL SHOOT FIRST AND NOT ASK QUESTIONS LATER’.

Castiel dumps the blankets and pillow on a clean section of counter and begins scavenging for anything. It’s difficult to suddenly filter what’s useful when you’re left looking at everything a family of three had to offer. All their food still where they left it. All of it.

He’s easily overwhelmed.

He reaches for the most basic of knowledge: sick people eat chicken soup. You always give chicken soup to ill people.

So he takes all the chicken soup. He’ll figure out how to warm it up later. Right now he needs to find medicine.

Where? Well, the bathroom. Or the kitchen. Or a bedside table. Or anywhere!

He’s panicking. Inwardly. Outwardly, he looks the same kind of composed he’s always been.

He leaves everything on the counter where it is, starts down the hallway left of the kitchen. The first door is a bedroom. Same song and dance. Check the bedside table. Allergy medicine.

No.

Check the dresser.

Condoms and marijuana.

…

(A/N: This is me judging Castiel for hesitating)

No. (Atta boy)

Next room.

Cigarettes, beer case under the bed, and- oh.

Oh my.

Castiel blinks hard, twitches a frown, and leaves. Thoroughly uncomfortable. He’s learning more about these strangers than he ever wanted to know about anyone.

Bathroom. Door’s closed.

He stands outside, hears buzzing inside and presses his ear to the door. Is someone alive in there?

Doesn’t sound like a razor. Bees? Are there a bunch of bees in there? Maybe they got in somehow and made a nest.

Wrong. Couldn’t be more wrong.

He throws the door open, and two things happen. One: he falls back into the hallway, knocking pictures off the wall, swatting at a swarm of flies. Two: he coughs, gags on the stench of rotting flesh.

The hallway is abuzz with flies, and soaking in the scent of death.

He was wrong. This family wasn’t evacuated. They didn’t go anywhere.

Hand over mouth and nose, he stumbles into the bathroom, minding where he steps. The flies have a done their job, mostly. There’s something smeared across the tile floor, and he doesn’t know what part it is, _who_ it is, but it’s human. Liquified.

There’s a gun near the toilet. The father slumped against the wall beside it, head blown open. Daughter and wife in the tub. Rotting, flesh peeling, slipping, oozing away from bone. Maggots crawling and wiggling in, on, and under skin. What’s left of it anyway.

Medicine cabinet.

Can’t-

Castiel coughs.

Snatches things that look like they could be medicine. Things in bottles.

And scurries out, waving his hand in front of his face. Down the hallway he goes, nose wrinkled and stomach churning. The whole house stinks of decaying bodies now.

Bottles go in his pockets, everything else is thrown into the sheet which he balls up and carries under his arm.

The moon has shifted in the sky, significantly, and he curses himself for taking so long in that house. You could be-

He jogs across the street, anxiousness giving his step a little pep. He’s shaking in the arms, the shoulders, and he knows it’s mostly because you’re in poor condition and he’s been gone too long. But another part of him, a very far removed human part of him is…affected- let’s stick with that, that sounds mild -by what he found in that bathroom.

He doesn’t remember getting to the back of the diner, passing the tables and counter and going through the kitchen, but apparently, he does because here he is in front of the meat locker, shifting from foot to foot. He hopes you’re still in there. Alive.

One breath. Two. Push the door open.

And gawk. Gawk a little longer.

You’re halfway to the door, on your stomach, deliriously trying to crawl. Mostly you just stretch an arm in front of you, slap your hand on the floor.

Must have used all your energy getting to the half-way point.

“Y/N!” Castiel exclaims, appropriately surprised and concerned. He drops next to you, eyes wide, looks between your bed, you and the door. “What- what are you doing?”

You roll over onto your back with a groan, and glare at him. “M’leaving! ‘is restraaa- rest- “

“Restaurant.”

“Yeh- thanks. M’leaving. Service issawful.”

At least you’re still alive, he concedes.

“Y/N.”

“M’not payin’ th’ bill.”

“Y/N.”

“…whut?”

“We need to get you back in bed.”

“I can’t sleep here!” you burst suddenly, grab at his pant-leg and look at him seriously. “I yelled at the waitress.” You explain, tone severe and secretive.

 _…Okay. I am very much in over my head._ Castiel’s expression belies nothing.

“She doesn’t work here.” Castiel says, playing into your delusion. What else is he going to do? “And I will leave a generous tip.”

You blink at him owlishly, thinking. You pull a frown that would make De Niro jealous, and say, “That’ll ‘bout do it.” Then look at all the stuff in his arms.

“Cas, you stole stuff?!”

He stands, walks the short distance to your nest of blankets, smiles despite himself as you talk at him, still on your back staring at the ceiling.

“Wer gunna get kicked outta here!”

He lays it all down, fishes around inside for the cans of soup, and puts them off to the side.

“D’you at least steal some breadsticks?”

He fluffs your pillow, slightly damp from sweat, plops the new one on top, at an angle.

“Y’didn’t, didya?”

Castiel rearranges your blankets, adds the newer ones to the mix,

“Whadd’re we gunna eat?!” you wail, like ‘woe is me’.

“You are delirious.” Castiel says in response, lightly. No need to step on anybody’s toes.

“Been over this,” you tell him as he strides back to you. “I’m Y/N. Don’t ya listen?”

“I forgot,” he shrugs, all _oopsy daisy_ about it. He holds out a hand for you, watches you scowl at him, features a bit slow. “I will get you something to eat. After you get back in bed.”

You calculate his seriousness. He looks pretty damn meaningful, goddamn poker face better than Keanu Reeves. “Better be breadsticks.” You grumble, laying your hand in his. He tugs you up slow until you’re sitting. “Drive a hard bargain.”

“You yelled at a waitress.” He shoots, sliding an arm under your knees, and you narrow your eyes at him.

“You stole stuff.” You pout resolutely as your hefted up into his hold.

“You were going to leave without paying.”

“Well…” you fumble, flitting your gaze back and forth, pursing your lips. “shut up.”

Castiel shakes his head, puts you down softly in all your blankets, lets you cover up. Get comfy. And then he reaches into a pocket, pulls out a bottle and squints at it suspiciously.

“That’s not a breadstick.”

“Shush.” He barely glances at you.

“Don’t shush at me.”

He sighs. But can make out the label. Ibuprofen. He thinks that will help. He hopes it will help.

 _Read the uses before you start shoving pills down her throat._ Right. Yes. Definitely a good idea.

He glances over at you, sees a new sheen of sweat break out across your forehead. The floor was most likely lowering your body temperature. You pout your lips, pull at blankets blearily, puzzled.

_Temporarily reduces fever…reduces minor aches and pains._

Yes. Perfect. Well done.

…how many?

_200mg. No more than 6 in 24hrs._

Okay. 2? …2? 2 sounds good.

He pops the cap, knocks a couple into his palm, glances at you again. You’re not even watching. You’re too busy gaping at your hand, curling and uncurling your fingers into a fist. God, you’re so out of it.

Cup of water. Put the bottle back in his pocket. And…

“Y/N.” he murmurs quietly.

“ _What?_ ” you whisper, eyes going wide, gaze locked on your hand in wonder mixed horror.

“Y/N, I need you to-“

You gasp quietly, wiggle your fingers, pucker your mouth.

_She needs help. But I need infinitely more- this is ridiculous!_

“Y/N,” He grabs your chin, turns your head toward him, _Hi. Hello,_ “Take these.” He tells you, the slightest tick in his jaw while he says it, and opens his palm toward you, pills in the center.

“And then breadsticks?”

… _Help. Send help._

“Yes.” Castiel grits, smiling tightly.

You pop them into your mouth, take the cup and throw the whole thing back. The exchange happening so fast Castiel barely watches it occur.

“So…breadsticks?”

Castiel blinks. “I lied.”

You flatten your mouth, bite at the inside of your cheek, “I hate you.”

“I know.” He leans back, falls flat on his haunches, and rests his arms on his thighs. You glare at him, arms crossed over your chest, and he _siiiighs_.

He thinks of that house, quite suddenly, and closes his eyes. He can’t help but muse about how lucky everyone is that your family didn’t end up like that. That you’re still alive. What luck. What sheer, dumb luck.

He wonders how much longer it can last. If it hasn’t already run out.

 

 

The road is in shambles, literally. There’s nothing left but a giant crater at least 10 feet deep and twenty feet wide. Rubble is still smoldering, smoking, and things that are flammable glow with embers. Like the interior of cars, the dead bodies lining the mayhem of the street. Body parts everywhere, blood like paint tossed carelessly on a canvas is splattered on walls, on cars, on pavement and slabs of ruined building.

Ash has settled like snow on the ground, thick and heavy, a fuzzy blanket. His shoes make no sound on it, probably wouldn’t anyway, he doesn’t wear heavy shoes. He looks carelessly, listlessly, and non-chalant.

Nobody’s left alive, and if they are… they won’t be soon.

He stands at the edge of the crater, unlit cigarette between index and middle fingers of his right hand, and he surveys. He crouches, looks left, right- lights his cigarette on the searing, sizzling bone of some guy’s ribcage -spots blood. Sees it in drops, here, a little further down, moving towards the alley.

_Let’s have a look-see._

He steps over the body, places his cigarette in his mouth, follows the dried trail of blood with a scrunched brow.

_Oh. A lot. Must have stopped to rest for a moment._

He skitters his gaze, takes a step-

And stops.

_Well. I will be damned! Twice._

He grins around his cancer stick, and glides over happier than a dog with a bone. He pulls the motorbike upright, looks over it. Pats it couple times. It’ll start just fine. He’s got a hunch.

He gets back to the trail, follows close and fast, finds a dead body. Two gunshot wounds, both to the chest.

_That’s my girl._

Makes it to the end of the alley, watches the blood disappear to the right, keep going. Still going. Drips into the main road out of town.

_Where are you going?_

The sun rises, spearing through nightly haze and chill, and doldrums. He waltzes out, strides to the center of the road, stares down both stretches, takes a drag of his cigarette. Blood. Still alive. Impressive really.

He trails after it, slowly, looking a little harder because the wound was starting to clot: the spots of blood were getting thinner, smaller. In his peripherals he notices buildings disappear, cut off abruptly. He looks up, eyes on a dark purple-blue sky, clinging to vestiges of night.

And then peers behind him at the sun, yellow and soft, pushing the violet away with shades of gold.

West.

You’re going west.

He grins, takes another hit, blows it out on a sigh. And flicks his copper locks away from his caramel eyes.

“I’m comin’ for ya’, Pip.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh shit! Guess who that is? C'mon. This is a Supernatural fic, people don't stay dead, *chuckles* Next time we see Reader she will have found all her marbles. That's all I'm going to say. Now if you will excuse me, I will be sleeping for the next two days straight, I'm exhausted. Kay, bye-bye now. Take it easy, lovelies. Life is rough.


	16. Blood In Your Shirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They just can't catch a break. That hasn't changed one bit. Always bringing up the back, drawing the short straw, playing the empty hand, taking a knife a gun fight, etc. Alright, maybe some dramatics were applied, after all, if the Winchesters are good at one thing it's persevering no matter the odds. They don't give up or go down easy. Lucky for the people on their side.

April 12th

 

“Fuckfuck _fuck_!” Dean curses, blinking away drops of sweat, ignoring the pain in his side as he huffs and puffs through another mile. One of four, and they still have another one to go. Sam and Emily are behind, not too far.

Emily’s serving as a human crutch for Sam: Sam had gotten shot in the leg.

“Shouldn’t have gone through town.” He grumbles to himself, grimaces in discomfort, wills the pain in his legs to numbness.

Things had gone to shit rather quick. A small scouting group of those cultists- those fuckwad nutjobs -were in town, probably sweeping through for any supplies that might have been missed. And normally a group of 5 people wouldn’t have been a big deal.

Except that they had a fucking Humvee, scavenged from a military outpost not far from Spartanburg. And mounted heavy machine on top of it. Yeah, things went to shit real quick.

They’re all lucky they made it out with all their limbs.

They didn’t have the resources or manpower to take down a Humvee, needless to say. So they had taken the chase into alleys, places the Humvee couldn’t traverse: too narrow, the corners too sharp.

Emily snuck into a building, climbed the second floor, busted a window out. And settled on the window frame, gun steady on the sill, butt of her beloved rifle leaning into her shoulder and peered through her scope.

The windshield was covered, a sheet of metal welded to the frame, only a thin cut through to allow the driver to see. Too small a chance.

So, she had blown out two tires, ducked away just in time for a hail of bullets to tear apart the wall where she had been.

Scurried down the stairs two at a time, sawing breath and rounded the hallway corner just to be tackled into the wall, knocking what air she had in her, out.

Thin, but tall, bullet-proof vest.

Shoulder in her ribcage, gun jarred from grip. Bring elbow down on top of spine, knee up, break away with a head-butt to his nose.

Momentary blindness- gunfire outside. Ignore it -blood spurting, gushing. Move in, tight punches, keep his reach small.

Duck jab, counter with right cross, swoop in hard. Punch, punch, side-step, breathe, dodge a high straight and get in under with precision: elbow in side, let him stumble, kick out his leg. No snap, another stumble.

He reached for a handgun in a holster on his opposite hip, Emily’s en route to push his arm, slide his aim, and then grab that arm at the wrist. His other hand snatched around behind him, grabbed the junction of her knee- too late.

She broke his wrist, he cried out.

Emily grabbed around his useless dangling arm-

He dragged her leg forward, compromised her stance and she went down on her back. Used her other foot to kick at his spine, above the vest.

Grunted, rolled away, patted for his handgun. Not there!

Her rifle was laying two feet away; he lunged for it-

Is shot in the thigh, high on the shoulder, and he fell on it. Fumbled it, got the butt of the rifle in his good shoulder, finger on the trigger, scrambled to his back.

Looked down the barrel of his handgun and the world went dark on him.

Emily gulped air, hand steady and listened. Occasional gunfire, further down the alley. The entourage was between them; her on one far end and Dean, Sam, Jace, on the other. Bad place to be.

Careful at the door, peer around it quick.

Three hunkered down behind a dumpster, attention on Dean and the others. Emily couldn’t see her group. Oh well.

She checked the handgun. One in the breach, half a mag. Good enough. Good enough for three.

Poked her head again, made sure they were still in the same place. Blind gunfire from Dean and Sam further down. A stray bullet embedded itself in a brick beside her head.

_Fucking Hell!_

Momentarily quiet.

Only opportunity.

She waltzed out, gun raised, grip sure and easy. Looked at them all lined up behind that dumpster. Drew in a breath, thought about the distance, how slight her movements needed to be-

They heard her footfalls, stepped on something that crunched and turned their heads.

One-two-three! Gone, gone, gone. Dead once, twice, three times.

-and exhaled.

Silent. For a second anyway.

“Damn. Remind me not to piss you off.” Dean called from the opposite end of the alley, but he didn’t pop up. Not all of him anyway. Just his head.

Emily felt uneasy about not seeing Sam or Jace, but Dean wasn’t in a panic, so she brushed it off. She went back for her rifle, and then took the weapons off the corpses. Patted around for extra ammo.

She jogged down the alley, slowed to a stop around the monstrous AC unit they were using for cover. Dean was busy tying off a tourniquet for Sam. Emily frowned in worry, and in scolding at Sam who only smiled sheepishly.

She tossed the guns into the weapons duffle, and then looked over at Jace who was leaning against the wall of the building that made up the left side of the alley. “You okay?” she asked, eyeing his shoulder sling, the gun dangling in his right hand.

“Yeah.” He seemed put off. He wasn’t even injured and here she was asking about his health when Sam had a damn hole in his leg.

“Sherlock’s fine,” Dean piped up, standing, and offered a hand to his brother. “Damn good shot too.” Dean praised, looking down the alley, all the way down where a guy was pooling blood at the front tire of the Humvee. A head-shot from more than a hundred feet away, moving target.

Dean yanked Sam to his feet, and Emily was there in a flash, hands out to help steady him if he needed it. Jace stared at the end of the alley, the Humvee. Bound to be full of stuff.

“I’m gonna check the Humvee out.” He said and started off, not giving anyone the chance to tell him no.

“Watch yourself.” Dean called to his back, and Jace waved him off over his shoulder.

Emily stared after Jace in worry, a second away from going after him when Dean said, “Good news. Bullet went clean through.” Sam nodded limply, knowing what Dean was going to propose afterwards. “More good news: it missed an artery, but-“

“You have to sew it up. Yeah.”

Emily winced. That was going to hurt. At least they had ibuprofen for the pain.

Jace dragged feet, kicked bottles, watched cockroaches and curious mice scurry away. He barely glanced at the bodies in the alley, counted the shells on the ground when the cultists had rushed down the alley firing off rounds like time was against them.

All those bullets and only one of them landed. He kicked one all the way to the end, listened to it bounce around on the sidewalk. He’s a little…embarrassed.

He can’t believe these people managed to kidnap him three- or is four -months ago. I mean, all those bullets, a fucking Humvee with a mounted machine gun and here all these cultists are: dead in an alley. Why was he even worried? Why had he been scared of these people?

He glanced up, furrowed his brow, confused-

Gun up so fast it made something twinge, and hoped he was the faster of the two. Two gunshots rang out, close enough together it sounded like one.

Adrenaline was running so fast Jace didn’t even feel the bullet, or hear the reverberation of the gunshots. He only factored in that the guy in the Humvee, the one that tumbled out and shot at him was dead on his back in the road.

And then he heard everyone yell his name, footsteps approach, and turned around to tell them he was fine. But about the time he faced his concerned group was about the minute everything hit. Him included. He fell like a sack of bricks.

Which lead to here: Dean with Jace in his arms bleeding out, and Sam and Emily behind, limping as fast as they can. Sam’s bullet wound was just barely stitched…with the last of the medical supplies.

“Fuck. Fuck me.” Dean rasps, silently pleading for this driveway to come into view. Where the Hell is it? She said it was in the tree-line, dipped down-

Is that gravel on the road up ahead? Ok, there! Right there. A break in the trees.

Turns fast on a pivot, pushes harder because he’s close now. Tire track. One. All the way down, past his eye-sight.

The motorbike. For a second he’s overtaken by worry. What if you’re there? What if that Australian is there too? Shit. Shit-fuck. He hasn’t come up with a plan for that situation yet.

But Jace grunts in his arms and Dean pushes that to the back of his mind. Right now, you aren’t the most important issue. Not the most important thing.

Grass. Grass hugging the driveway, that’s good. Means he’s close to the house. Gravel thins out, overrun by fallen leaves, weeds, and out of control grass. Sweat rolls down between his shoulder blades, his lungs beg for mercy, and his stomach is wet, drenched in Jace’s blood, so he doesn’t give a shit about his problems.

Seeing the large wrap-around porch Emily described is like a god-send. He doesn’t see the dog she mentioned: Emily had said that a dog would most likely greet him, and not to be nervous. Duke was apparently a softie. But no dog.

Up the steps with stiff legs, through the front door- the missing front door. That’s been kicked off its hinges. He pauses on the threshold, sucking down air like a glutton, and listens.

Quiet. Not a sound. From anything. If that dog were inside the house, it would’ve heard him by now. And where were you and that Australian? Not here. No one’s here.

He barges on, into the living room where havoc has been wrought: furniture overturned, cushions torn, wallpaper slashed, pictures on the floor. It looks like a tornado has been through here.

Kitchen.

The kitchen hangs just off of the living room, right before the stairs as Emily told him.

Counter. Put him on the island counter. And look for medical supplies. Where did she say they were? The closet in the living room, or the closet in the bathroom?

“Oh, fuck. Way to listen, Dean.” He grumbles to himself, starts out of the kitchen and digs his heels in abruptly. It’s silent. Eerily so. What-?

“Hohshit!” Dean exclaims, and turns fast enough to make his head spin. He strides over to Jace, puts his fingers to Jace’s jugular…nothing. Checks the kid’s wrist, purses his lips, adjusts his hold…nothing again. Dean’s trying not to panic, trying. He might just be missing the point, he is a little shaky, and maybe Jace’s pulse is just really faint.

Dean puts his ear to Jace’s chest and listens. Listens hard because he doesn’t want to miss what’s there, doesn’t want to make a mistake. Holds his breath, and strains to hear something. But there’s nothing. Dean pops up straight, heart beating fast and hard enough for the both of them, and tries to remember the specifics of CPR.

But it’s muscle memory, lucky for him. That’s all he’s got at this point.

He gets through the first set of chest compressions, mind shut down, narrowed to just his hands and arms, tilts Jace’s head back, pinches his nose and exhales two breaths. Checks for a pulse. Nothing. Starts a new round of chest compressions, which is about the moment that Sam and Emily stumble into the kitchen.

Dean doesn’t even hear anything they say to him, he’s too busy at the moment, too focused. He himself probably could’ve been shot and he wouldn’t have noticed. Lucky for Dean, Sam’s quick to bark out orders at Emily: first aid. Alcohol, gauze, stitches…anything that could be used for a blood transfusion.

That last one pulls her up short.

“Transfusion?” she asks glancing at Dean, feels sick, back to Sam.

“Type O.” he gestures at himself, and Emily almost sags in relief but then she scrunches her face.

“But that could be dangerous.”

“Emily.” Sam says, tone steely. “Jace is already dead,” _Worst case scenario is- already -happening._ “If he comes back a transfusion is his best chance.” Emily sways on her feet, drags a breath, nods and waddles off down the hall.

Sam doesn’t watch her disappear, he limps into the kitchen, surveying the blood drenched in Jace’s jacket, his jeans, Dean’s t-shirt, blood on the counter, and ignores the overwhelming metallic scent.

“The bullet pierce anything important?” Sam asks Dean in the middle of his chest compressions.

“Don’t know. I fucking hope not. If that’s the case we might be making a call to Cas.” Dean grumbles, brow wrinkled, jaw tight, eyes stormy and dark.

Sam stares. Dean would compromise everything if he called in Cas. How the Hell would explain Cas? How would they explain the fact that they had a third person they voluntarily kept a secret from Emily and Jace? When the both of them had willingly shared any information himself and Dean inquired about.

“The kid’s really grown on you.” Sam hears himself say, and Dean scoffs but there’s no ire in the sound.

“He dies, we can’t save him, and you wouldn’t call Cas?” Dean asks, rhetorical, breaks away to breathe two lungful’s into Jace.

“I would.” Sam admits easily. He’s never been one to give up his humanity without a fight. The end of the world won’t change that. “Mission be damned.” He sighs, like he’s disappointed in himself.

 He expects Dean to snap at him, tell him he’s wrong, change his mind, but Dean purses his lips, narrows his eyes and nods. Nods small and sharp.

“Yeah. Yeah- mission can go fuck itself.” Dean declares with mean air and clipped consonants, a new mission in mind, a new goal. The other mission wasn’t half as much fire and steel that his new one is. The other one was ashes and wet twigs, struggling sparks. This one’s wild and bright and fearsome, and pure vitality to him.

Two more brea-

“Wait, Dean he’s breathing!”

_Holy fuck. He’s breathing. Okay, awesome._

“I got everything we had- I- I kinda blanked out, just grabbed everything-“ Emily appears around the corner, stopping short because Sam’s suddenly right on her toes.

“That’s great. Good.” Sam takes the duffle from her arms.

The Winchesters are a flurry of motion around her, even Sam who suddenly doesn’t seem to remember that he has a hole in his leg and is pain. Jace’s t-shirt is snipped away, and then dragged away with his jacket, and Emily just sort of _leaves._ Checks out in the doorway.

So much blood, and underneath, scars. So many. Bruises too. What happened in those three months? What happened in that prison?

“Do you guys need me?” She asks them, pulling herself back, and they both glance at her, barely a second but she can see them profile her in that second, and she knows their answer.

“Nah, we got this. Go sit down.” Dean tells her, and Sam nods at her quick as he throws things out on the counter, and Dean waits anxiously with a couple fingers to Jace’s throat, keeping track of his pulse.

Emily hesitates in the doorway, reluctant, rooted in some sort of state of mute helplessness. Or maybe it’s guilt keeping her trapped in a short loop of impermanent blinks and breathes as she watches Sam and Dean jump to the aid of Jace, practiced and sure, calm. Maybe it’s shock: it happened so fast, so randomly, and so close to everyone.

She shambles to living room, the chaotic living room that she doesn’t quite notice, and leans on the overturned couch. She thinks about Quin, how much the older Callahan went through for Jace, how much she risked and lost, and Emily suddenly feels sick. So much. The entire group sacrificed and lost so many things trying to find and rescue Jace.

Here she was. She rescued him. She had him. And for what? For him to get shot, and die on the doorstep of the house. She failed. Let her guard down for one second and this is the consequence.

Emily sinks to the floor, elbows on knees, hands dangling between her legs and listens to the sounds of the Winchesters trying to save Jace. Quiet. No words spoken. Only actions. She drops her head back, lets exhaustion kick in, and closes her eyes.

_Laughter bounces around the room, jovial and genuine and rare. Emily wipes at her eyes, lets her laugh dwindle, and shakes her head._

_“I’m impressed. The best my class could think of was putting cups of water all over a classroom.”_

_Quin shrugs, rubbing her knuckles along her jaw. “We also plastic-wrapped the entire cafeteria, and switched out two teachers’ rooms.” She sighs wistfully, toying with a gauge in her ear and smiles with the chuckles of Rowan and Emily._

_You and Jace are asleep, half laying on each other and half fighting for the space on the pull-out couch. The two of you spent most of the day arguing about silly things- normal things -like if DC or Marvel was better, who the better batman was (Michael Keaton or Christian Bale), if Star Trek or Star Wars was better._

_Emily smiles softly at the lump you two make on the couch, Rowan follows her gaze and Quin grins knowingly, sipping from her water bottle. “Think they have any clue?” Emily wonders aloud, and Rowan snickers,_

_“Y/N’s blind as a bat.”_

_Quin nods, “Seriously. Jace’s crush is the most obvious thing I’ve ever seen.” Quin beams, thinks for a moment and then adds, “Y/N is subtler though.”_

_Rowan and Emily blink at her, look at you, Jace, and splutter. “Oh, come on.” Emily starts and Rowan finishes for her,_

_“Y/N doesn’t like Jace. I mean, the kid’s…a kid.” He says lamely, squinting at his own wording._

_Quin laughs quietly, “Like I said: subtler. Call it a hunch, few years time…” she trails off, nodding, brown hair tickling her forehead. “Mark my words. If it doesn’t happen, it’ll at least be more obvious on her part.” She jabs a thumb in your direction, brushes her bangs back, reaches for her water again, and leans back against the coffee table._

_Emily stares hard at you and Jace, and tries to visualize. It’s surprisingly not hard. Rowan hums beside her, frowning thoughtfully, turning a whiskey bottle in his hands. And they both concede with tiny smiles, shake their heads._

_“In that case, let’s toast to things to come.” Rowan murmurs softly, and Emily smiles, holds up her bottle of wine. Quin rolls her eyes, Rowan will drink to anything, no toast needed, but she reopens her father’s- her flask. She reopens **her** flask, and all three clink their alcohol together, smiling secretively._

_A few more jokes are made here and there, a couple stories swapped before they all slip away into sleep, smiles still quirking their lips._

 

“Emily.” Her shoulder is shaken gently, and she creaks her eyes open.

It’s Sam.

She bolts up, her back stiff straight, “Is he-?”

Sam smiles gently. “He’s alive. Sleeping.” Sam assures her, and she blinks hard, jaw tight. She nods once and releases a shaky breath.

She drags her hands down her cheeks a couple times, trying to chase away the heaviness, the emotion. Sam plops down next to her, sighs deeply, and drops his hands into his lap. His hands are still stained red, smeared, there’s blood under his nails…

“How long have I been asleep?” Emily asks him, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“About three hours.” Sam replies, glances at her in his peripherals. She’s tired, ragged, dull in color for the first time since he met her four days ago. “Dean’s asleep in the kitchen, dragged a mattress down for Jace.”

Emily watches him wring his hands in his lap, dyed red-brown from blood. She stands, stares at the kitchen and starts for it, keeping her footsteps light. Around the corner, and she stops a moment to look at all the blood-stained gauze, the amount of blood in general, the tools here and there on the floor. And then sees Dean in a high-backed chair, nestled in the corner of a counter asleep sitting up, slouched slightly. 

She tip-toes lightly, watching her step, and peers along the tile for a bottle of peroxide, and snatches a dish-towel off a cabinet. She doesn’t go around the counter, she’s not quite ready to see him yet, and makes to go back the way she came.

When she turns around, Dean is awake, staring at her, and she jumps violently, slaps a hand over her chest. He blinks at her grumpily, dark bags under his eyes, mouth frowning. He’s not angry, just tired, and after a few more blinks, softens his gaze. She’s still breathing shakily, shaking her head at him with a flat mouth.

She pads over, thwaps him with the dish-towel on the shoulder, and he manages to smile through grog and exhaustion. And then she leans down, pecks his stubbly jaw and murmurs, “Thank you.” Into his ear. He hums his response, grins a little wider when she pats him on the shoulder and watches her leave.

Emily walks back into the living room to find Sam frowning at his hands, picking at dried blood around his cuticles, one knee drawn up, his other leg straight. He looks up when she approaches, sees the dish towel and peroxide and understands.

“Should save that.” He says as she sits down, “I’m sure I can find a bucket of water or something around the outside of the house,” he lightly protests, watching her unscrew the lid and slosh some liquid on the towel.

“We have plenty of rubbing alcohol. Peroxide is better at removing blood anyway.” She shrugs, putting the empty bottle down.

She grabs one of his hands, begins wiping the blood off the back. “How does your leg feel?”

Sam takes a minute to answer, blinking through the dark, trying to catch features of her face but all he can perceive in the dimness is the color of her hair, like sun-struck wheat. “It hurts a little. But it’s not bad.” He murmurs as she takes his fingers, curls them around her own and swipes along his knuckles and the grooves between.

“What about you, are you okay?” he asks her, and she shrugs at him,

“I’m fine.” Turns his hand over. “I didn’t get shot.” Emily drags the cloth around his palm, wipes harder at the roughness of his heel.

Sam smiles thinly. “Okay.” And lets the issue rest, tries not to think about how gentle and nice the feeling is of her caring for him is. At least until she gets to his fingers, takes the towel along his nails, compares how dainty and small her own are against his own, and then he admits it’s something he wouldn’t mind a repeat of.

She takes up his other hand, head bowed and he can barely make out the part in her hair, slightly darker roots. Here’s his repeat. He’s never been so happy to have two hands.

“It’s a coping mechanism, right? Blaming myself. I know it isn’t my fault, but…” She trails off with a heavy sigh, rubbing between his knuckles. “It’s my fault.” She finishes limply, like she worked up to a joke, built up the suspense, but decided she didn’t care about the punch-line anymore.

“It’s on all of us.” Sam tells her, his free hand twitching in his lap with the desire to…do something.

“I couldn’t do anything for him.” She continues, using a little more strength in her hands, because blood is caked on or to make up for the weakness in her words Sam doesn’t know.

He knows what she’s talking about though. When Jace was on the counter and she came with the supplies, and she just sort of shut down. “You were in shock.” He says, soothing, not judging or sugar-coating.

“But I shouldn’t have been. I should’ve been able to do something.” She grumbles, rubbing hard circles into his palm, and Sam doesn’t know what to say. He’s had countless conversations like this with Dean, all his words had fallen on deaf ears in the past. He doesn’t think re-hashing words of encouragement from a different life would do any good; they’ve most likely lost their color and punch anyway.

She wipes at his fingers, gentler, taking time and focus until she’s finally done what she can in the dark. They sit for a moment in the quiet, breathing the same air, listening to the silence, the crickets chirp outside, owls hoot.

Sam curls his fists, feeling for stickiness or for tightness of stretching skin puckered by blood and doesn’t feel any of it. He couldn’t have done a better job himself. He turns his head to talk, thank her, but she beats him to the punch.

“Sam, thank you.” Her voice is warm, sweetly grateful, carried on a wavering note of vulnerability.

Sam can make out the blue of her eyes, even in near pitch-black, and wondered why he never took notice of them before. He’s gotta make up for lost time, a lot of lost time. He figures he might as well start now.

Shoulder to shoulder, he slides his hand off his lap and finds hers on the floor. Scoops hers up in his, laces his fingers between her smaller ones. “Of course. Thank you too.” She’s surprised, that’s easy to tell because she blinks at him a couple times, and he worries that he just came of left-field with it, but her fingers squeeze in their hold and he relaxes.

 

_Thump._

Sam shifts, shimmies his shoulders, continues sleeping.

_Pat-pat-pat._

No. Turns his head, scrunches his brow.

_Poooke on the cheek-_

“Alright. What?” Sam snaps softly, opens his eyes, and finds Dean crouched beside him on the floor.

“Gotta talk to you.” Dean says, shoots a look at Emily who’s asleep on the other side of Sam, her head leaning on his shoulder. _Alone._

Oh, this day is already panning out great. “Kay.” Is all he gives Dean.

Dean notices their interlocked hands, but doesn’t say anything. He can’t say anything: he’s damn attached too. Stupidly so. He nods, and goes into the kitchen, glancing over his shoulder as Sam eases himself out and away from Emily.

While he’s waiting, Dean looks over the counter, leaning to check that Jace is still breathing. Movement, he’s got movement. One good thing at least.

“So, what is it?” Sam asks over Dean’s shoulder.

Dean turns, like there’s no rush to it and crosses his arms over his chest. “When I went upstairs to drag that mattress down-“

“what, you find someone’s diary? No, I got it: an obscene amount of porn mags?”

“Shut up. I’m being serious here.” Dean hisses, eyebrows low, and Sam holds his hands out, placating. “You noticed the living room when we came in right? No front door to boot.”

Sam nods, shoves his hands in his pockets, wondering where this was all going.

“Well, you hit the top of the stairs and you’re punched in the face with it: sulfur.”

Sam raises his eyebrows with a hard blink. “I swear you never have anything good to say in the morning.”

Dean chuffs sarcastically like _guilty as fucking charged. Sentence me._ “And _someone_ left us a nice little message on the wall in blood.”

“Someone?” Sam already has a good guess.

“ _Squirrel and Moose-_ “ Dean begins imitating, only to be cut off brusquely.

“Crowley’s after her.” Sam realizes, four steps of Dean who’s still back at home plate, thinking, _Wonder what he did to the Australian?_

“Oh…” Dean sighs, closes his eyes, braces his hands back on the counter’s edge. “Oh.” he’s so tired, and he just woke up. He doesn’t have the energy for the apocalypse.

“Are we still all _‘Fuck the mission_ ’?” Sam asks, raking a hand through his hair, and Dean snaps his eyes open, frowns stonily.

“Saving people, hunting things. That is the mission.” Dean declares, tone firm, conviction nailed to the mast in the middle of a storm.

Sam fights so hard against the smile, but in the end, he loses. And for once, he doesn’t mind losing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha, I lied. I updated ahead of my own schedule, that never happens. Usually I update late. *pats self on back* Yeah, so y'all got to see some insinuations in this chapter...some romantic insinuations. Yay. *throws confetti* <\- don't mind me, I'm all jacked up because of allergies...I might do another chapter with this little group, or maybe one from Rowan's point of view. Haven't decided. Let me know your thoughts, people! I love to hear from you. Take it easy, lovelies. Life is rough.


	17. You Can Have It All: My Empire Of Dirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot can happen in four days. As an example:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys. This story has reached 2,000 hits. Maybe that's not a lot, but I think it is and it makes me stupid happy. Thank you! Thank you. I love this story almost as much as I love all of you. Almost.

April 12th

 

She’s gone. I know because if she was still here she’d be right beside me, cussing up a storm and shooting her gun like I didn’t teach her how to aim. But she isn’t here, and I’ve never been so glad to be alone. I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know who’s here, I don’t know what they are, but I have a feeling they’re connected to that dream.

I don’t believe in coincidence, never have. Not about to start now. I’ve got a few seconds before they’re toeing the threshold of my room and I only have time to grab a pistol and a flash grenade. And then I’m tackling one of them out into the hallway, all shoulder, I don’t want to give these guys a chance to get ahold of me.

I roll away when we hit, knee on the hardwood, and squeeze off a couple rounds watching blood spurt from his chest, and keep my peripheral attention on the one at the bottom of the stairs. Appearance wise, they’re both unremarkable, exceptionally plain. I wouldn’t be able to pick them out in a crowd.

I slip the flash grenade in my back pocket, and watch the one on the floor get up just as the other starts up the stairs. I shot him twice in the chest, point blank. He shouldn’t even be alive. The back of my neck prickles in dread, and my stomach turns around the throbbing burn of that strange wound, like some kind of awareness; context clues if you will.

The one with blond hair, the one I shot, turns to face me, brushes dust off his shirt and pants, and watches me watch him. The stairs creak under footfalls, slow, bored, heavy. I don’t have a plan. I did, before, but it involved killing them. Looks to be impossible now.

So, now I’ll just buy time. Give Y/N a chance to get away.

I shoot them both in the leg, bullet cracking through bone, splintering in the floor, and they both waver in their stance, wince a little, and I reach back for the flash. It’s always been my last resort, even back in the mafia. It was what I used when I was backed into a corner, outnumbered. Today, I’m not necessarily outnumbered (I can take on at least four guys at once), but I am inarguably outmatched.

I toss it on the floor at their feet, and move down the hall, toward Quin and Jace’s room. The window in there is large, large enough that I can fit through, and I know for a fact that it opens easy: the kid had a habit of sneaking out in the middle of the night.

Just as I reach the door I hear the rev of the bike’s engine and breathe a sigh of relief, she’s leaving. She’s getting out of here. Further back, by the stairs, I hear the intruders growl and grunt, recovering. I slip in, shut the door behind me, rush to push the dresser in front of it. I feel it’s a lost cause, but what else can I do?

Window. I hurry over, grip the lip and pull as hard as I can. Nothing. I pull again because obviously, it’s going yield different results this time. Caught on something. It won’t budge. Late, I notice the nails on the window sill.

“Quin!” I hiss in realization. She most likely jammed the window so Jace would stop sneaking out. Good idea then. Bad idea now. “Oh, y’ little shit.” I sigh, letting the window go. So much for that plan. And to think, I really was going to try and catch up to Y/N. Goddamn Callahans.

I drop to the floor, lean against the wall under the window, and listen to those two guys mockingly knock on the door. I wonder if it’s just them, or if there are more after her. I wonder who they are.

“What are you doing? Stop screwing around and kill the idiot.”

Well, that’s just rude.

Wait a minute. That voice is familiar.

Something glints under Jace’s bed, something metal and I lunge for it. I drag it out, and gawk. An assault shotgun. He’s been hiding an assault shotgun under his bed.

“I was wonderin’ where this went.” I murmur, and cock it. Now I get why he wanted to help me sort, and organize the ammo. And clean guns. The clever little bugger. “Goddamn Callahans.” I praise, smirking, just as the door bursts open, dresser screeching and tumbling over as it’s shoved.

They make it easy, just standing in the doorway, taking up the space. One shot, and the blond goes tumbling back with a hole in his chest that oozes blood. Falls back over the stairway railing, breaking and smashing it, and the other has yet to move out of the way. He does when I pull the trigger, following his friend over, and start I toward the door.

I can’t escape from here anyway, and I know I’m not leaving this house alive. Call it a hunch.

My hunches are hardly ever wrong.

Just as I clear the door, gun up, and turn around the jamb to look for the third person, the shotgun is pulled from my grip. But not by hands, by some unseen, unknown force it’s wrenched from me. And all too soon, I’m defenseless, staring at another face. But this one’s distinctive, and I’ve seen it before.

The suit. The shoes. The salt and pepper beard. The dream/not-dream.

“You.” I say, squinting. He doesn’t respond immediately, takes the time to snap the shotgun over his knee. _Okay, don’t see that every day._ My strange wounds ache with a familiar warning.

“Please, call me Crowley.”

I frown, pop an eyebrow. “Like the Black Sabbath song?”

‘Crowley’ tosses the pieces of my shotgun to the floor, dusts his hands off. “Sure, if you like.” Groaning carries up the stairs, clothing rustling, and those other two stagger to their feet.

“Rowan Trescott, I’m not surprised you’ve made it this far, considering your past.”

Is he…? He is.

“But I’m afraid-“

“Could ya do me a favor, and not?” I interrupt, sighing. “Look, if I’m gonna die, I’d rather skip the monologue.” Those two guys are making their way back up the stairs, a little more pep in their step, but overall slow. I watch them, and they glare at me. I wish I could say I was surprised when their eyes flooded black, but I’d already seen it, lived through some crazy.

Maybe there’s a part of me that knows- knew -that there are things out there. Evil beyond man. I had just lived so long as part of the evil that I was convinced all these dark shadows were solely cast by people.

“Fair enough. I don’t have anything to gloat about yet.”

Yet. Y/N.

Crowley snaps his fingers, and like a switch has been flipped, his two companions stiffen straight. And I lose sight of them somehow. One second they were at the top of the stairs the next they’re right behind me.

To say I didn’t fight would be a bald-faced lie, I fought tooth and nail, fought dirty, fought like more than my life was at stake. And it didn’t matter how many times I knocked them breathless, or cracked their ribs, didn’t matter that I worsened their injuries, made those holes in their chests wider. They just kept coming, getting up, fighting me, pushing me back, crowding me.

I huffed and puffed, and fought through exhaustion, even when I went light-headed. I kept going, getting weaker with each blocked punch, and side-stepped kick, until a leg buckled from beneath me, and it was over. In an instant.

I was hauled up by the collar of my shirt, limp, and slammed down. Down on a broken pole of the railing, right through my chest. Blood flowed like a river, ran everywhere, and I could taste it, I was choking on it, staring at the other half of the hallway, listening to my blood drip onto the stairs below. I faded fast, not before hearing Crowley say something about Y/N, me, the book.

“Seems a waste not to use him. I think I’ll keep him.” Are the last words I was able to focus on, and everything was gone. Quiet, cool, empty.

 

Of course, I came back a moment later, still staring at the hallway. I wasn’t choking anymore, or tired, and that pole in my chest was more a nuisance than a danger. I felt stronger than I ever had, and I felt lighter, my whole body.

“Welcome back. Get up, I’ve a job for you.”

And that was when it started, when I became something new.

I still remember the first time I filtered the world, allow the bloodlust and hate to temper my vision, shift the world on its axis.

I do it quite a lot now. Just for a change in scenery. Being dead was nice for the two seconds it lasted, but this is much better. This entire shit-hole world at my fingertips. I can take it. I didn’t have a chance before when I was human. Now, it’s all mine.

I can kill anyone, don’t have to lay a hand on them, just snap my fingers and I can twist their heads around their neck. Or I can disengage their organs, sever them from the inside and watch this person go bug-eyed and slack-jawed, crumple to the ground in agony. Snap the tendons, or break the legs, wind the spine like a bendy-straw.

There really aren’t any limits to my whims. A bad thing to be on the receiving end of them. Like Y/N. I’ll get her, I’ll find her, capture her. And get on with my own business, which at the moment is finding a weakness in Crowley.

Think’s he can just order me around, tell me what to do, spit at my feet and walk away from it unscathed? No, no, no. I never was fond of following orders. Only did what I had to in the mafia to survive. Well, now I can survive anything.

In the back of my mind, there’s an itch. Like I’m forgetting something. Like I left a fantastic bargaining chip at home but I’ve already driven across town and don’t want to waste the gas on turning back. And that’s when I remember the book.

I sit on my trusty motorbike, puffing the last of my cigarette as I think. As my mind drudges up old memories.

Those hours after Y/N had been kidnapped by the Winchesters and I spent them making a copy of that book and its runes.

And there they are, swimming in front of my eyes in vivid detail. Every. Single. One. Crowley wants you, the Winchesters want you, those cultists want you. And in every instance, they need you with the book. I see why now.

I didn’t understand them before: when I was human. Now, they all make perfect sense.

Well, Crowley can fucked along with everyone else. No one’s getting their hands on you except for me. The Winchesters want to kill you, the cultists want to use you, and I don’t know which direction Crowley’s leaning.

I could use you. I don’t want you dead, at least not until Crowley is. Maybe you can help me kill him. Won’t be hard, you trust me, blindly. No reason for you to keep the book from me, you’ll probably throw it at me, relieved beyond belief to get rid of it. I wonder if you’re still alive though. I hope you haven’t bled out. That would put a damper on things.

In all honesty, I could just teleport, but I’ve missed this bike. I flick my cigarette off to the side, and start it. Nostalgia like a sweet drink of water.

 

April 14th

 

“We can’t leave yet, Dean.” Sam says, peering over his shoulder into the living room, making sure Emily’s still asleep on the couch they flipped over yesterday. “Jace is still in the red, and what would our excuse be anyway?”

Dean scowls, rubs a hand along his jaw, thinking. He digs in his jacket pocket, pulls out his cellphone.

“Cas?” Sam bursts quietly, eyebrows in his hairline as his brother turns his cellphone on. Well, jeopardizing things right quick, aren’t we, Dean?

“You said it yourself: we can’t leave.” Dean shrugs, waits as it rings, and grumbles, “Better not have let it die, the feathered idiot.”

Sam rolls his eyes, leaves Dean to his conversation, and goes to check on Jace. His pulse is stronger, he doesn’t seem to be having any problem breathing, and a quick peek under the bandage shows that his stiches have held up through the night.

“Hey, listen I don’t have a lot of time. You gotta find Y/N quick,” Sam hears Dean murmur quietly, no doubt worried about Emily hearing. “Crowley’s after her. Buncha demons paid a visit to the farm house a couple of days ago or so. We’re not sure what happened to the Aussie, didn’t find his body anywhere. Anyway, you have to find her, and keep her safe.”

Sam checks Jace’s forehead, and sighs at the temperature. No fever either. The kid’s lucky. Very.

“Doesn’t matter. Just keep her safe. And Cas- thanks…” Dean trails off after a moment, glances at Emily, at Sam hunched over Jace, and walks a little further away, toward the fridge. “It’s not on you, you know? Don’t blame yourself. It was all me.”

He hangs up, clenching his jaw. That’s as close to fully admitting what he did as he’ll probably ever come. Dean’s not an idiot. After about four days of not hearing from Cas, it was pretty obvious about what was going on.

Cas was deliberately not trying to find you. Or the more believable scenario: he had already found you and was either with you, or keep tabs on you from the shadows. But knowing the angel, the guilt would drive him to revealing himself, seek forgiveness for a crime he isn’t even guilty of.

Dean sighs, turns his phone off, stares at the fridge and its alphabet magnets. ROWAN SNORES is right at eye-level, and Dean quirks an eyebrow. FUCK OFF underneath and Dean smiles wanly at the passive-aggressive teasing, like a family would do. 

Dean grabs a few unused letters on the freezer door, arranges them and hears Sam speak up from the island counter,

“He say anything?”

Dean shrugs, “Not really, I did most of the talking. Couldn’t afford to chit-chat about the weather.” Glances over his shoulder at Sam, twitching a smirk.

“What?” Sam scowls, suspicious, and folds his arms over his chest.

“Nothing.” Dean says and turns around to lean back against the fridge. “How’s Sherlock?”

“He’s good. Could be distant family with the way he’s cheating death.” Sam remarks, tilting his head as if pondering the possibility.

“Uh-“ Dean points between the two of them. “Our track-record with death is complete shit. Better hope he isn’t related.”

Sam snorts, peers into the living room. Emily’s laying on the floor, stretched out, using her arm as a pillow, her blonde hair cascading over her shoulder to pool on the hardwood like flowing silk. Dean watches Sam, watches the way the sharp edges taper off into blurry roundness, the stiffness drip out of his muscles.

Dean makes a decision then and there that he will take the fall, the blame. Paint a target on himself, absolve Sam of any responsibility when this whole situation blows up. And it will blow up. Inevitably. Sam doesn’t deserve to pay for what he’s done, he doesn’t deserve to lose something simply because Dean took something else.

“Well, anyway,” Dean starts, pushing off the fridge, “I’m gonna head upstairs, four empty beds and I’m using one of ‘em.” With that, he leaves the kitchen, throwing a wave at Sam.

Right. Sam forgot about the beds, maybe he should put Emily in one of them. He could stay down here and keep an eye on Jace. He thinks suddenly, that there isn’t enough salt for all the doors and windows, and then he tries to think of good places to put Devil’s traps.

He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose and stares aimlessly at the fridge. Subconsciously, he reads the words there, twitching a smile like Dean did at the childish banter. And then,

BITCH

On the freezer door. Sam huffs a laugh, grins, and shakes his head. Some things never change.

Sam doesn’t immediately wake Emily, instead he surveys the rest of the house, opening closets, memorizing exactly what’s outside what window. Peers, and squints at the front doors, then the threshold, cataloging damage. If they can find some hinges, it’ll be possible to put the front doors back.

Something else: where’s the dog? Sam hasn’t seen any evidence of a dog in the house. No food or water bowl, or toys. But there are nail marks in the floor from his claws, and as Sam ventures out onto the porch he finds more there too. And, bloody paw prints leading down from the steps, a few more out into the grass before the prints disappear.

Sam looks up, into the wide-open country. If the dog ran off, he could be anywhere. Then again, he could return home too. Dogs are good like that, get you all worked up thinking they’ve disappeared and then they show up in time for dinner as if they hadn’t given you a three-hour long heart attack.

Sam continues his re-con, walking around the side of the house looking at this and that. A shed, open, a thin patch of grass worn down flat in front of the door, and the inside is quite small. Just enough room for that motorbike.

There are shrubs underneath the bedroom windows, stretching along the entire wall and then wrapping around the corner to the back of the house. He moves on until something catches his eye about the shrubbery. It’s broken in a section, flattened, and some of the branches are in the grass, leaves too. And he looks up at the second story, spotting a half open window above the shambled shrubbery.

There’s no way that Australian- Rowan. There’s no way Rowan could’ve fit through that window. You could though. You could grip the edge of the window, fall into the shrubbery to break your fall…Sam gets closer as he speculates, looks for confirmation.

And then you crawled out of the garden…here. The grass has been torn up slightly, pieces missing, flattened. You dragged yourself a few feet in the grass because there’s more branches and leaves further out.

And then what? Sam can’t see anything.

No, go back.

He does, eyes glued to the ground. A leaf here. A twig there. A…footprint? Sam leans down, squinting at a bare patch of grass that’s mostly dirt. Yeah, a footprint. And the tread is the distinctive diamond shape of Converse sneakers.

Sam looks up, at the corner of the porch, and hurries forward, following a broad direction until he finds what he’s looking for. Motorcycle tracks not far from the porch, and paw prints in the dirt not far away. The tracks lead down the driveway. There are shoeprints near the bike, you and Rowan. But all of Rowan’s point away from the bike: getting off and walking away. And yours. You got on. Rowan didn’t.

Sam rubs at his forehead. Rowan sacrificed himself to give you time to get away. You got away, and went out on the road, alone. With Rowan’s death hanging over your head, no doubt blaming yourself. Sam shoves his hands into his jean pockets, and frowns hard. He’d be worried if he didn’t know you. Tough little firecracker.

And what with Cas watching over you, he’s sure you’ll be fine, physically. Those mental wounds, the emotional ones…he’s sure they’re taking their toll on you.

He should’ve done more. Been a damn buffer, an immovable wall between you and Dean. He should’ve protected you. He should’ve been a human instead of a hunter. That’s why things are the way they are, he’s gotten humans and monsters mixed up. He doesn’t know when to flip the switch anymore.

He had just taken to following Dean’s lead. Obviously, that had been a bad idea.

He hopes he can see you again, that he can reunite you with Emily and Jace. He wants to apologize, make it up to you if he can. He’ll spend however much time he has left making it up to you if he has to.

Sam goes back inside, striking his heels the whole while, beating himself up. He checks on Jace again, the whole nine-yards, walks away satisfied, and heads to the living room. Emily is adamantly asleep, on her back now, features lax. He hopes she’s a heavy sleeper.

He slips an arm under her legs, the other under her neck, and lifts her slow, afraid to wake her. When he’s standing, he waits a moment, and he pretends it’s to make sure she’s still deep in slumber. But really, he just roves her features with his eyes, memorizing her, the way is she is now. Relaxed, calm, peaceful, because he’s sure when you all meet up she’ll never look this way again. 

He doesn’t torture himself trying to imagine what she’ll look like angry and disappointed, and disgusted, possibly hateful. He’s sure he’ll see it soon enough. He pretends it doesn’t make his skin crawl, his stomach drop.

No, he pretends right now stretches into forever, that the future is just an abstract concept as he carries her up the stairs. Like this future where she hates him is just a theory and not a definable point in the timeline.

He makes a guess on the room, knows he’s right when he spots a rifle leaning against the dresser, a few scopes on top. This woman and her ballistics. It’s a bit warm tonight, so he foregoes tucking her in, just places her on the blankets. And then he agonizes silently.

Sam leaves, steps out in the hall, closes the door, and stops. Something’s strange about the hallway. More detective work. The railing is off, shifted a few inches, and Sam crouches to look at it. Cracks up at least half the poles, and there’s blood soaked into one of them, a third of the way down. And then he notices all the scuff marks on the floor, drops of blood here and there.

Askew pictures on the wall, a couple frames broken. The wallpaper is knicked, no, dented, from a fist, tinged with blood. And close to the opening of the stairs are bullet holes, two right at the top step. Another a few feet away, imbedded at an angle, blood around the puncture. There’s one more in the fourth step from the top.

“Damn.” Sam says. Rowan put up one hell of a fight. Sam’s impressed. He’s sure that if Rowan had a demon-killing knife, those assholes wouldn’t have stood a chance. “But where are you?” he wonders aloud.

There’s hardly any blood for a fight so brutal, and no body. Rowan couldn’t be dead, could he? Maybe he escaped. Sam knows he didn’t.

“Where did you go?”

He’s confused. Crowley wouldn’t keep him alive, he didn’t need Rowan. But then, if that was the case, where the hell is his body?

Sam goes about opening windows in all the rooms, hoping to air out the hallway so that when Emily wakes up she won’t notice. He steps foot in your room, one large stride, and rocks back on his heels. Dean’s in here, laying on your bed, back against the wall, book in hand.

At least it looks like a book-

“Dean, seriously?” Sam scolds, hands on his hips.

Dean doesn’t look up, only licks his thumb and turns the page. “What? She’s not here, not like she can get mad.”

“Dean, put her diary back where you got it.” He huffs and starts toward the window, not sparing Dean a glance.

“I don’t think she’d appreciate you calling it a diary. Seems more the journal type.” Dean says, looks up, watches Sam open the window, the old thing sighing and groaning on the tracks. Sam stands for a minute, staring out into the dark, and Dean inhales sharply. “She wrote about us.”

Sam stiffens, locks his jaw. “I don’t need to know. Put it back-“

“She thought about asking us for help. Rescuing Sherlock.” Dean interrupts. “I mean, she’s got a fucking page of pros and cons for it.” Dean snorts, pouting fiercely. And then he grimaces, “The reason she didn’t ask, and I quote: _Sam and Dean are most likely the last decent human beings left on this planet, sure they’ve got their flaws, but when it comes down to it they’re good people. I can tell. That’s why I can’t involve them: Good people shouldn’t pay for what others have done. End of the day, this is my mess, and I’ll die in it alone like I should._ ”

“Was that-“

“After she stole all of our shit?” Dean asks with a tiny short-lived smile. “Yeah.” And then he sighs, rubs a hand over his mouth and barks a pained laugh. “There’s not a bad word about us in here.” He taps the _journal_ with the back of his hand, “I’ve been looking.”

Sam breathes deep, chews a lip, and imagines you sitting down to write that passage, probably the day of. Imagines you behind the wheel of the Impala, windows down, most likely smiling, gunning it down some deserted back road. He remembers the car rides with you in the back, how you and Dean argued about who was the better rock band: Led Zeppelin or The Rolling Stones. The dead-pan look you’d give Dean when Rock-Paper-Scissors was used as a way to decide on something.

“Well, stop looking. It’s not going to help anything.” Sam says, pissy, and spins to face Dean. “Do yourself a favor and put it back.” He tells him and strides out, face drawn.

Dean listens to Sam thump down the stairs, footsteps recede into the kitchen, and he turns the page. “No.” he murmurs rebelliously. “Wanna know how it ends.” _Wanna know how badly I’ve fucked everything up._

 

April 15th

 

Castiel watches you from afar, scavenging from cars broken down on the side of the road, and thinks over his short phone-call. He considers talking to you now, but something stops. It’s fear. Fear of rejection. It’s fear of judgement. Nothing’s happened, in the last 48 hours since the farmhouse was attacked. He hasn’t sensed anything.

And you’re more than capable of handling any humans in your path. It doesn’t strike him that you haven’t slept or eaten since then. He doesn’t think about those things, those needs because they don’t apply to him.

No. He’ll stay hidden, only reveal himself if a demon or Crowley shows up. Only if it’s absolutely necessary will he show himself. He’s sure you’ll be fine. He’s sure nothing will come of cutting through the city, he’s sure you know what you’re doing. He’s sure you know it’s dangerous in the city and will be careful.

He’s disappointed. Disappointed in himself.

You knew all those things. You knew what you were doing, you knew the city was dangerous, you knew you should’ve been careful. But that day, that day you also knew something else.

You didn’t want to live anymore.

Too bad it was such a habit: living.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, y'all got see a bit of everything. From everyone today. M'not sure how well I did the First Person POV, but whatever. I'm not even sure how I wrote today, my allergies are kicking my ass from here to China. But it's cool. It's cool. I've gone through two boxes of tissues but it's fine...next chapter will be up sometime next week if I'm still alive. In the meantime, comment and give me your two cents. Take it easy, lovelies. Life is rough.


	18. Not All Truth Liberates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're awake. Finally, and completely coherent. That's a giant relief to the angel. You keep going like this you're going to have him in awe of you. But before anyone throws a party you want a couple things. New clothes, and answers.

April 18th

 

You break through the veil of slumber in starts and stops, like puncturing through layers of plastic wrap with a pencil. Enough to the breach the barrier, but not enough to emerge freely. And each time you catch little things beyond the ever-encroaching fog.

The flap of wings, the brush of shoes on floor, something cool on your forehead, a sigh. Other times you catch feelings. And you’re not sure how you do it, or how you know, but you know.

Anxiousness. Panic. Guilt. Regret. Despair.

And none of them are coming from you. Someone’s having a bad day.

Your memories trickle in, the ones from the heated haze, the discombobulation under the strength of a fever. The escape attempt, the conversation that followed, the ibuprofen. And Castiel. Castiel through all of it, trying so hard to be of help despite the blatant evidence that he didn’t have a clue. Only that he cared, and wanted to take care of you. Even after you brushed him aside and gave him the cold shoulder. When you were so unforgiving.

You’ve had enough sleep. If you do it anymore you think you’ll go crazy. This time you’ll wake up. Not missing anything in your dreams anyway.

It’s fairly dark in the locker, but slightly warm, and peering around, you see why. There are candles on tables he’s dragged in here, lit and emitting soft glow, as well as various scents. The closest table in the corner next to your bed, a group of four candles in the center, all the wax melting and mixing into one another.

Another table at the far end by the door, same deal. And another along the wall to the left, a grouping of six candles on it. It’s homey, warmer in appearance as well temperature, and the smells are nice too. Then you notice the lack of Castiel by your bed, the last place you had seen him.

But he isn’t far: up pacing back and forth in the middle of the locker, arms crossed and chin on his chest as he walks out whatever issue is weighing on his mind at the moment. You have a feeling it’s something to do with you.

You struggle up on your elbows, shoulders next to your ears. “Jeez, who died?” No points for class.

Castiel halts in his tracks so fast his upper body kind of wobbles forward, and he snaps his head sideways to look at you. You raise your eyebrows,

“You don’t work on your bedside manner, I might have to leave.”

He looks alarmed for a second, eyes widening. But when he realizes you’re just joking he smiles thinly. “Maybe you should just lower your standards.”

You peer at him. And laugh, eyes crinkling with it. Who knew he could tell jokes?

“Why are you laughing?”

Ok, not a joke.

You sit up, groaning, working your glass-like bones around your muscles. You really hope that they haven’t like, atrophied or something. You lean back into the wall, finding it unpleasantly cool. Guess your fever’s gone then, otherwise you’d be like Peter Parker all over this thing.

“So, anything happen while I was taking a siesta?”

Castiel fidgets, takes a couple hesitant steps forward, and when you only watch him, he takes a couple more. “I…got candles.” He says plainly.

You smile. He’s uneasy. _Most likely thinks I still hate him._ “Yeah, I see that. It’s nice.” You tell him, trying to settle his nerves, and he glows faintly at the praise. You glance down at the blankets, other pillows he found and brought back, and is that a stuffed dog?

You’d smile. But all you can think about is that the child it used to belong is most likely dead. You don’t pick it up.

“Thank you.” You say, and look up, smiling softly. Castiel tosses his gaze around, fidgets his hands at his sides.

“Of course.” He responds robotically. Empty. And you realize it’s because he feels guilty. He’ll do anything to make for what he did. What he’s doing, anything he does, is an obligation, penance. Something to be expected.

You frown.

It’s not a feeling you like. Being up on a pedestal, looking down on a guilty man, especially one so innocent. He doesn’t deserve the brunt of your unforgiveness, he doesn’t deserve the bitter sting of you indignation.

“Don’t.” you tell him, and sigh sharply. He regards you in confusion, so you continue. “Don’t do things for me just because you feel guilty. It’ll taint everything you do.” He blinks in surprise, wrinkles his brow, and swallows audibly.

“Guilt is like poison, it spreads fast, and uncontrollably. And bleeds better than an open wound, turns things opaque…it travels well too. Guilt can be passed on and picked up with no knowledge of the transaction at all.” You toy with the edge of a blanket, rub the fabric between your thumb and index finger.

“Y/N, how can I not feel guilty? After what I did-“

“What you did was trust someone. It’s not a crime, sure it had bad results, but you can’t control what other people do. We aren’t responsible for the actions of others.” You sigh, knowing you’re half full of shit. It isn’t going to be anywhere as easy when you get to Dean. But…you _can_ blame Dean for what he did right?

“Y/N-“

You crane your head back, pin him with a stare. “Don’t feel guilty anymore, Castiel. I forgive you.”

It’s silent for a long time, neither one of you with a follow-up, so you just stare at each other, feeling the air shift and welcoming the change until it’s calm and amiable. The waters certain and crystal clear. Until he cracks a smile.

“I was just going to say stop interrupting me.”

You roll your eyes, whet your lips around a smile, and shake your head at him. He made the mistake of trusting someone. Can you make the same one? Yeah. Yeah, you can. Easily. But you don’t think Castiel will betray your trust. Not now.

“Alright. Enough with the drama, I am starving.” You groan, rubbing at your stomach, and suddenly Castiel’s by the bed.

“I found this small stove- I think it’s for camping, I’m not sure.” He tells you excitedly, and pulls said stove from a giant basket behind him. “I don’t know how it works, I think propane is involved somehow-“

You smile as he talks animatedly, eyes alight with self-praise and child-like wonder about this device. You’ve seen a million: your parents used to go on camping trips all the time in Maine, and you went with them for a lot of them. This one’s familiar, you’d seen a couple exactly like this.

“Alright,” you say and roll out your nest. “Give’re here.” You make grabby hands for it, and place it on the floor away from the blankets. Fire hazard and all that. “Right. So what am I-“

A can of chicken noodle soup is presented to you before you can even finish your sentence. He’s certainly eager to see how this works. But, why chicken noodle soup? And it hits you.

“Did you get this for me when I was sick?” you ask, taking the can from him.

He nods, eyes bright and expression unchanged despite the shift in yours. “Yes. Unfortunately, you fell back to sleep before I could give it to you.” He smiles, watches you turn the stove on, and then remarks, “This is nice, it’s like camping.”

You stop, pinch your eyebrows… “Castiel, this- this is nothing like camping.” You tell him gently, not wanting to blow the party he’s having.

He cocks his head, takes the can from you after a second of you tapping the sealed lid. “I have never been camping.” He admits, punctures the lid with four fingers and peels the aluminum back.

“It’s fun…if you go with the right people.” You tell him, smiling sadly, and feel over the stove, warmth licking at your palm. He places the can on, waits a second,

“This is fun isn’t it?”

Jeez, he really wants to go camping.

You peer at him sideways, smirking. “Most fun I’ve had in the last two days.”

“You’ve been asleep for two days.” He points out, frowning at the stove…and then his features go lax when he looks at you. “Oh.”

You hum at him, pick the can up, swirl the contents and put it back down. “So, I’ve been meaning to ask: how long have you been following me?”

Castiel knows the answer to this question. About a week. But instead he says, “Four days.” He doesn’t want you to know how close he was on the twelfth. Doesn’t want you to know that he did absolutely nothing the night Rowan was killed. You could blame him for that.

“Oh,” you whisper, “So, you were around when I went into the city?”

He knows what you’re implying. “I thought you knew what you were doing.” Does he sound condescending? He doesn’t mean to be.

“Yeah.” _I did know what I was doing. I was trying to get myself killed._ “Me too.” You agree sheepishly.

“Maybe you should lower your standards.” You jab at him, and simply because you laughed at that line of words earlier, he chuckles, because humans understand humor. He thinks. Sometimes Dean laughed at things that no one else did, so maybe not everyone knew what was amusing. But you seem like you know what is genuinely funny.

“Can I ask you where you were going?” Castiel wonders, blue eyes curious. “Before you collapsed, before the city.”

You swirl the can again, sigh. “I don’t know, honestly. I just needed to leave. Put some distance behind me.”

“Between you and the Winchesters?” Castiel inquires, and you don’t respond. “They have no idea where you are, and I won’t tell them about you.”

“No, not them. Everything.” You say, mouth firm, jaw set, and he doesn’t say anything else while the soup warms up. When it’s ready, he silently offers you a spoon from seemingly thin air. You don’t talk while you eat, only brood into the broth when you’ve got a mouthful.

“What about that boy?” he asks you out of nowhere, and you freeze violently, spoon placed slowly back into the can.

You close your eyes, inhale sharply, and grip the spoon handle so fiercely it digs into your fingers. “Don’t bring him up. Ever.”

And the only sounds that take up the silence is the spoon hitting the walls of the tin can, and flames on candles sputtering and popping.

Jace was better off as far away from you as possible, that much had been made clear when the Winchesters kidnapped you. You’re a danger to everyone, and you can’t put Jace in the crossfire. Emily was still out there looking for him, she’d find him. She’d have to. You couldn’t. You couldn’t save anyone.

When the soup is gone, you stand. Castiel watches you with worry in his deep blues, and apology too. He looks like a kicked puppy, can’t be helped. He has to know the topic of Jace can never be breached. Strictly off-limits.

You walk to the door, legs a little weak but able to support you.

“Where are you going?” Castiel asks, following after you. He’s not trying to molly-coddle, you know that. Even so, you have to fight off a sigh.

“I’ve been wearing the same clothes for close to a week. I’ve bled in them, slept in them and sweated out a fever in them- where are my shoes?” you say, and swing the door open, sweeping your gaze along the floor outside.

“Y/N. You shouldn’t be up and out, you need to build your strength.” Castiel lightly scolds even as you spot your socks and converse in the kitchen. You wave him off, literally.

“It’s just a short walk. Town’s not that big.” You loosely tie your laces, glance at him, the worry lines across his forehead and take some mercy on him. “Look, if I get tired I’ll let you know.”

He sighs. But relents. That’s not to say he does it with any kind of grace, he’s practically stepping on your heels with every step. But when you get outside it doesn’t matter.

Sunlight, and nature, color, and-

“Fresh air.” You moan with a greedy inhale, and close your eyes to feel the sun on your skin. It feels like ages since you’ve seen the open sky too.

“There’s a boutique over that way.” Castiel points past you, arm in your face. But you’re in a good mood, so you brush it off. You start on your way, glancing every which way, glad for scenery. Even if it is a bit sad and morbid.

“I wonder if any of these buildings are hooked up to back-up generators? I really need a shower.” You remark, hands in your pockets. Castiel doesn’t say anything behind you, and it’s solely because he just bit his tongue to stop from saying something stupid.

He about asked you: Did the farmhouse run on a back-up generator?

Yeah. He’s kind of terrible at keeping secrets, he’s really going to have to try hard.

A bell above the door dings happily, and the sound makes you smile a little. It’s dusty, as to be expected, a bit stale inside, gloomy. But it doesn’t dampen your mood, nope. Because you basically get to go shopping for free.

Castiel waits by the door while you rummage around, pawing through clothes racks with a smile on your face. He hopes you find something you like soon, you don’t need to be running around the town so quickly after recovering from your illness. He moves closer when you disappear into the back of the store, a couple shirts thrown over an arm, and leans on the check-out counter.

You begin humming. The Rolling Stones, if memory serves. Castiel had heard a lot of classic rock over the years. It reminds him of Dean, and Sam, and how he’s betrayed them so coldly. He stops thinking about them immediately, remembering what you said about guilt.

He watches you take out an item of clothing, stare at it, put it back. You do the same with three more pairs of pants, two tank-tops, and four jackets, and Castiel sighs. Glances along the counter…looks at you.

DING!

You squeak, and jump, holding your clothes to your chest. Castiel looks at you sideways, finger over a bell, and non-chalantly asks,

“Are you almost done? This is boring.”

You glare mildly, oh sure, he can sit around for two days while I’m dying but two minutes looking for clothes and he’s in agony.

“Yeah,” you call out and then look at your small find. “These’ll have to do.” You murmur to yourself, and turn around to look for a dressing room. You’re in luck. They have one, a thick velvet curtain hanging on a metal pipe is the door for the tiny changing room.

Castiel watches you disappear behind it, and turns his back to keep an eye on the front of the store. The windows are so dirty and caked with dust, it’s difficult to see out them. But he can make out shapes of cars, other stores looming across the street, trees in the distance, the starkness of the blue sky. He can see enough.

There’s nothing out there. So, why does he feel uneasy? Must just be lingering nerves from the last couple of days. Barring the fact that you are the key to ending the apocalypse, he can’t deny that he’s gotten attached to you.

Your fire and determination, your quiet strength, the fragility you hide behind rigid morals, the unerring loyalty you have for your friends, your reluctance to surrender…all things that he admires, all these qualities in you that have survived the apocalypse. Maybe even forged by the apocalypse.

He wonders if your selflessness was forged by the brutality of the apocalypse, or if it’s always been in you. He likes to think that quality is just an inherent part of who you are. He’s come to find recently that forgiveness is selfless. You’ve made him aware of that. Forgiveness is sacrifice, of the highest kind.

He has faith that you will forgive Dean, perhaps not easily, but you will. He really doesn’t think it’s within you to hold a grudge, to foster hate. Of course, he knows it isn’t above you to feel it, but he just doesn’t think you’re the type of person to hold onto it. If you know how dangerous guilt is, then surely you know how destructive hate can be.

Right about when the sun sinks behind a cloud is the moment you emerge.

You smooth out the wrinkles in your t-shirt, shimmy your jeans to a more comfortable position, and slip your new but used jacket on. Castiel has his back to you, keeping vigil out the store-front, and for some reason, you feel it’s unnecessary. For a second, you believe life is normal and the only threat to your life is old-age.

But alas, the moment passes. You make your way to him, skimming your fingers along clothes racks. These clothes still have price tags on them, it’s bizarre almost. How some things stand the test of time and others wither so quickly, so willingly.

“Hey,” You say softly, stopping at his side. He doesn’t respond, so you continue. “I’ve been wanting to ask you something,” you rake a hand through your hair, shuffle a few steps ahead, toeing at a heap of necklaces that have fallen off a display. “Well, a lot of things, actually.”

Castiel nods firmly, having a general idea of where your questions are going to land. “I will answer to the best of my ability.”

You sigh. “Truthfully.” You correct him, and whirl around to make eye contact. “That’s all I care, that you tell the truth.”

Oh. Well then. He’s not going to lie, actually he is, that’s the problem. Depending on the question, he’ll lie.

“Of course.” He says, not blinking at your request.

“Great.” You idly scratch a cheek, nodding lightly. “How long- exactly -have you and the Winchesters been looking for me?”

Castiel closes his eyes for a moment, thinking. It’s been…. “Since it all began.”

You gawk. “That doesn’t make any sense.” You pout in thought. “Why did it take so long to find me the first time? Lately, it’s taken you hardly any time at all to find me.”

Castiel smiles wanly. That’s true. The first time around, it had taken him almost two years, then after that 6 months, 2 months, 3 weeks, 2 days.

It probably would take him a few hours to find you now.

“After you came into contact with that book-“

“God, I hate that book,” You interrupt, frowning starchily.

“It was much easier to get a lock on your position.” Castiel states, an expectant look in his eyes. Like he knows you’re going to ask-

“Why?”

“Because it resonated with your soul.”

You squint at him, all manner of irritated. Didn’t you tell him you wanted the truth?

“What?”

Castiel sighs, a slight crease in his brow, like he’s worried. For a time, it’s quiet in the boutique, nothing but the creak of old wood and the wings of some moth flapping around somewhere to break the stillness.

“Y/N, you aren’t completely human.”

The floor tilts underneath you, a harsh slant that has you grasping for some semblance of sense and equilibrium. Your mind grapples for knowledge to hold onto, something undeniable, something simple.

_The world ended. My parents are dead. Quin is dead. Rowan is dead. I’m travelling with an angel. I killed a man. I’ve killed people._

_I’m not human._

“What the Hell are you talking about?” you ask him, glaring. You have a feeling you aren’t going to like his answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy, it's been a long time. I must apologize for this chapter, it's sat for so long on my laptop untouched that I may have forgotten just where it was supposed to go. I'm the type of person that doesn't write a blueprint for chapters, and now I'm seriously regretting it. So, what I'm saying is: I totally winged this chapter, lol. Anywho, take it easy, lovelies. Life is rough.


	19. New Horizons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's bad news, and there's finding out the truth about what you are. Hey, no one's judging you for your reaction, but, uh, Y/N? If you're planning on leaving, putting all this behind you, you'd better do it quick. Because, what you're running from...well, it's on its way to you. All of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't decide on who to focus on this chapter, so I gave everyone fifteen minutes of fame. Don't fret about your identity, that will be delved into deeper...later.

“It is difficult to explain…” he fumbles, cutting his gaze around the room, clearly unprepared for this conversation.

“Of course it is,” you dead-pan, crossing your arms over your chest. Nothing’s ever easy, is it? But…he can’t be serious. How can you be anything but human? Both your parents were normal, your childhood happy and untainted, nothing weird ever happened. You’re normal.

Right?

“You haven’t noticed anything strange about yourself?” Castiel prods, eyebrows angled in a cautious, but pitying way, and you frown in response.

“What do you mean _strange_?”

Sunlight pierces through the grime of the shop windows, casing your figure in bright gold, warming Castiel’s tan trench coat a sand color. Dust is seen easier in the light, floating around in bright tiny specks, drifting slowly as if they are working their way through honey, or the monotony of life.

“How long- before the soup -has it been since you’ve eaten?” He asks, and does something uncharacteristic: he slips his hands into his pockets. Something he does when he feels anxious. But you don’t know that yet.

You open your mouth…close it. When was the last time you’d eaten? Those peaches with Rowan? No, you gave those back. Ok, since then…

You take too long to come up with an answer, so Castiel asks another question. “What is the longest you’ve gone without sleep?”

A couple days, you want to say. But…you know it’s longer than that. Much longer. The longest anyone’s gone without sleep is what, 10 days? You’re alarmed, when you think back through those first few weeks of looking for Jace to find that you beat that record. Beat it into the ground by a full week. And you remember only feeling slightly sluggish.

“Did you know, that when I found you that bullet wound was almost completely healed on its own?” He’s squinting at you know, observing your reaction, and he’s no longer tip-toeing. He’s jumping head-first into this. “Really, all I did was heal a busted ear-drum. The bullet wound was on a whim.”

Castiel sighs. “The only reason you passed out was because you lost a lot of blood and didn’t rest. And I’ll add that losing as much blood as you did would have killed a normal human being.” He doesn’t like blowing down your house of cards, what he’s sure you have your composure hidden behind.

Ok. **OK.** So, you aren’t human. That’s…fine. I mean, it’s not, but- what can you do?

You rub at your eyes, pinch at the inside corners and inhale a deep breath. All right, first order of business is-

“What am I? -If I’m not human?” You wonder aloud, more stupefied than horror-struck or even worried.

Castiel fidgets, swallows thickly a few times and from that alone your spine shudders up your back. But when he speaks, it’s as if your spine vacates your body altogether.

“You are…evil incarnate.”

And away the world slides from you, like the tide pulled back to sea, no chance of holding on or grabbing it, forcing it to stay. Just gone from your feeble grasp.

It’s a good thing Castiel catches you before you bust your head open on the floor. Then again, you’d probably be fine.

 

April 18th

Jace thinks he’s having a weird dream, because staring at the kitchen ceiling from the floor is something he’s never done. For any reason. Nor would he ever do. His tongue feels heavy, like lead in his mouth, and his stomach feels like it might be two more seconds away from a war-cry.

He can’t remember much of anything at the moment, but he is momentarily relaxed with knowledge that he’s back in the farmhouse. If he’s there, he’s safe.

But if he’s here, does that mean everyone else is too?

The thought motivates him. Motivates him to turn his head. The bar cuts off his vision. But he can see a stain on the tile floor, something dark brown and crusty. Blood, dried blood. What happened?

“Yeah, I’m gonna check on him.”

Jace blinks blearily, he knows that voice. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard it so tired, so lack-luster. There was always some fire behind it, a minute mark of sass and smart-assery, and something a fraction dangerous.

Jace can’t remember much, but he remembers enough about Dean to know that he’ll get teased from here to the moon for falling asleep on the kitchen floor. So he drags himself up on his elbows, and grimaces at the tightness in his abdomen, the throb along his ribs, and tries to recall what exactly happened _to him_.

But Dean thumps around the corner a second later, boots thudding carelessly, soles sometimes squeaking. The reaction isn’t immediate, mostly because he’s yawning, and stretching his arms above his head.

Well, if he’s that non-chalant, then perhaps nothing serious happened to Jace?

But Jace shifts a little on the mattress, a mattress he just now notices, and grunts at the discomfort. Dean cuts off mid-yawn, arms still high and gawks at Jace, wide-eyed for a full five seconds before he bursts.

“Holy shit!” He more or less skids to his knees next to Jace’s mattress, and hesitates a moment, flicking his eyes over Jace’s form. Before he can convince himself not to, he wraps the young Callahan up in a genuine Winchester hug.

Needless to say, Jace is shocked. Shocked enough that his tongue falls flat and his arms limp. He’s not entirely sure what’s going on.

Dean breaks away to yell over his shoulder, “Sam, Emily! He’s awake!” And then he turns back to Jace, claps his hands down on Jace’s arms, gives the kid an excited shake. “I can’t believe you’re up.”

Jace is light-headed, a little bleary eyed, and wholly discombobulated. “Why not, what happened?” Oh, that feels awful, like sandpaper on concrete, both trying to make their way up his throat at the same time.

Dean’s mouth twitches, most likely on the way to a frown, but he talks. “You got shot. You don’t remember?”

Jace blinks in lethargy, dropping his gaze to Dean’s t-shirt, idly thinking. He was shot? When, how many days ago? By who? Is that why his chest feels like a jigsaw puzzle held together by wet glue? Most likely.

Jace shakes his head. “No. Last thing I remember is that pineapple truck.”

Dean furrows his brow. Well, the pineapple truck was at least the day of. So, maybe it’s not such a bad thing that he lost a couple hours. Not a bad thing that he’s forgotten being shot.

Footsteps thump through the house, loud and rushed and indistinguishable. Dean pats Jace on the shoulder with a small smile and stands, offering a hand. Jace braces himself, braces for the pain, and is pulled to his feet with Dean’s help, grimacing.

Emily’s the first around the corner, hope high in her chest along with breath, and she breaks that air at the sight of him; standing on his own two feet, leaning a fraction into Dean, his forehead creased in concentration. He’s awake, and moving, and looking alive.

Sam just smiles behind her, hands in his pockets. He had his doubts, but he had hope more abundantly that Jace would pull through. And he was right. About that, and something else. Jace is a lot like Dean, for whatever reason, neither of them seemed capable of dying. Nine lives. Or maybe they were just stubborn to a fault.

“And on the third day…” Dean says, lowering his voice and throwing on a theatrical tone. Leave it to him to ruin a moment.

Jace scoffs. “Yeah, just call me Jesus. Have any water I can turn into wine?”

Emily shakes her head with a wry smile. “I don’t really think you’re in the condition for miracles.”

“Fair enough,” Jace concedes, and then glances around the kitchen. Telltale traces of an emergency linger. Splotches and drops of dried blood on the counter, an empty bottle of alcohol, a bloody handprint smeared onto the side. A pair of scissors, a short length of stiches, a stray towel dyed dark brown from blood. And on the far side of the kitchen, the waste basket: filled to the brim with bandages and towels, each varying degrees of bloody.

Did he almost die? He shakes the thought off, and points out rather lamely, “So, we made it to the farmhouse.”

A pained smile flashes across Emily’s face. “Yeah…”

Jace can already tell that you’re not here, and neither is Rowan. You’d both be in this room if you were, and the dog too. So, now you’re missing. Great. All that trouble finding him, and then everybody’s gets home to find it empty.

“What happened?” Jace asks, sincerely hoping that you and Rowan are missing and not dead somewhere in the house.

“We don’t know. We got here and no one was home.” Emily says, blue eyes dim in worry, the corner of her mouth tugged down in a frown.

“There’s more.” Jace prods, noting Emily’s slightly flaring nostrils, a tell. One he picked up on in the first few weeks of knowing her. Her nostrils always flared when she was hiding something. Now her frown deepens.

But it isn’t her who answers, it’s Dean, that rough timbre vibrating Jace’s side. “Yeah. House was broken into, living room thrown to Hell…no sign of your friends.”

Jace suddenly feels like the day wasn’t worth waking up for. “Okay.” On the other hand, he’s half-starved, and parched as a desert. He’s in no condition to be worrying and trying to come up with a plan, or do anything that doesn’t involve resting. He can’t even think straight, or remember what happened to him in detail.

“Well, Sherlock-“

Jace sighs-

“First order of business: getting some food into you.”

As if that’s a cue, Emily patters off into the living room, Sam on her heels, a curious look on his face.

Jace almost groans. “I think that might be the best thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Dean nods absently, mind on another matter: how heavily Jace is leaning on him. Most of the teenager’s weight is being pushed into Dean’s side. “Can you walk?”

Jace frowns at the floor, contemplating. His legs feel like jell-o, and his vision sways every few seconds, there’s a gnawing pit in his stomach. Some good news hidden amongst this though: his arm has finally healed, but it is sore.

He doesn’t want to have to rely on anyone, be a burden. But he might have to make an exception this time around; he did come close to dying after all.

He still aims for middle-ground, stubbornly. “Help me.” Not _Carry me_ , or _No, I can’t walk,_ but _Help me._

Dean nods again, firmer. “Here.” He takes Jace’s left arm, winds it around his back, and waits until he feels Jace’s fist crank in his shirt before he asks, “Ready?”

“Pssh.” Jace scoffs, a cocky smirk on his lips that seems out of place, considering. He takes a tentative step forward, shifting his balance.

In the living room Sam rests his hands on the back of the couch as he watches Emily prepare the couch for Jace. Fluffs up a pillow, lays out a blanket, frowns a bit, smooths the blanket…fluffs the pillow again. Sam cracks a tiny smile, that he immediately wipes off his face when she looks at him.

“What are we going to tell him?” she wonders, puts her hands on her hips.

“What?” Sam says, wondering if she just had an inner monologue moment. Because he doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

“I mean…all that mess upstairs. The blood on the railing…Rowan’s room.” She lists things off with a distant look in her eyes, but her mouth is expressive enough. Pursed thin in worry and anxiety.

“We’ll think of something. It’ll be a while before he can walk up stairs anyway.” Sam explains, features comtemplative.

Emily bites a lip, shifts her gaze as her thoughts wander unleashed in her head. Most of them formed from concern, and puzzlement. Things seem to be spiraling out of control, new developments that make no sense, roadblocks and new danger…and it isn’t exactly like time is on their side to figure all of it out.

Now, you and Rowan are gone, no note or explanation. No ideas as to what the Hell happened to the both of you. Only that it was grisly, and enough of a big deal for the two of you to ditch the farmhouse. Emily has a bad feeling about your disappearance. She has a hunch that if they don’t get after you soon, they’ll lose you.

Your disappearance feels completely different from Jace’s. It’s unknown, and violent, and because of that there’s an urgency behind it.

“Hey,” Sam murmurs, and her gaze snaps up, alarmed. He sighs softly, “I know you’re worried, but we can’t do anything right now. We can’t go anywhere with the condition he’s in, and we definitely can’t tell him.”

Sam glances over his shoulder, continues when he sees the kitchen archway is empty. “If he knew, nothing would stop him from trying to go after her.” He’s sure of that, especially since he knows the history between Jace and you. How close to of you were- are.

Emily divulged a lot to him under the burden of guilt. A burden he hopes will be lessened now that Jace is up on his feet and showing signs of sure recovery.

“I know. That’s why this is so frustrating.” Emily sighs, wipes her slightly damp palms on her jeans and opens her mouth to continue speaking. Intent to vent, or to verbally express her apprehension, who knows, because she’s interrupted.

“I thought you said the living room was wrecked?” Jace inquires from his place attached to Dean’s hip.

Sam turns, a smile back on his face. He’s so glad he decided to help Emily find jace. Glad that he didn’t give a choice in the matter.

“Yeah. Well, obviously we cleaned it up.” Dean snarks, the _duh_ more than evident. Dean’s been letting Jace determine the pace, which only seems to be three steps before the youngest Callahan has to take a breather.

“By ‘we’ you just mean Emily, right?” Jace shoots right back, eyes narrowed in focus as he plants a foot in front of him.

“I’ll throw you.” Dean warns, mouth flat in irritation.

“Oh, would you? That’d be great.” Jace asks sweetly, smiling.

Sam and Emily can see this argument coming from a mile away.

“You know, maybe you shouldn’t be shit-talking. You look like the Walking Dead.” Dean advises, taking another step, a twitch in his jaw.

“Yeah? At least I have an excuse.”

Oh, dear.

Somehow, without a world war, or limbs lost, Dean helps Jace make it to the couch. Both of them a little grouchy, but very much in one piece. Sam and Emily hide amused smiles by coughing and rubbing a hand over their mouths.

Dawning a pouty frown, Dean hands off a bottle of water to Jace, and sinks down next to him on the couch, propping an arm on the armrest.

For a while, it’s quiet, with Jace taking sips of water, Dean leaning his head on the backrest of the couch, and Sam and Emily standing at a couple windows, looking out into the yard.

The water clears Jace’s head a fraction, soothes his dry throat, and even does something for his gnashing stomach. But, it doesn’t bring back his memory. Which he’s partially alright with. He doesn’t think remembering the minute details of being shot would help him in any way.

“So, what now?” he asks after his bottle runs empty, and two pairs of eyes regard him in astonishment. Dean keeps his eyes closed, he might be on his way to falling asleep.

Sam and Emily look at each other, that conversation coming to mind. What to tell him? Luckily, Dean beats both of them to the punch.

“Nothing.” He grunts, unmoving, unperturbed.

Jace shake his head, expression incredulous. His plastic bottle crackles in his hands, “What do you mean _nothing_?”

“I mean, we wait for you to get back on top of your game.” Dean rolls his shoulders a bit, adjusts his head on the backrest, angles more comfortably.

Makes sense, it does. Jace knows it does. But…you’re missing, Rowan too. Most likely in danger, in need of help. He can recover on the road.

“I’ll be fine, I just won’t pull any lone wolf, Batman-vigilante crap.” Jace argues, tone even, almost bordering agreeable. Along the lines of: I see your point, I appreciate it, but I don’t stand behind it. On another note, that shirt looks really good on you.

“Look,” Dean pops his head up, “You’re basically held together by silly-string and scotch tape. You can’t even walk from here to the kitchen without doubling over like an asthmatic old-timer.” Oh, there’s that rude, condescending tone that comes out when he puffs up his chest. Must be an automatic feature or something.

Jace glares, honey eyes dark, bags under his eyes deeper, heavier in shadow. “I’ll make it. I don’t have one foot in the grave anymore-“

“How about this? We’ll leave when you can make it upstairs. Til then, get comfy, Sherlock.” Dean snips, lays his head back, slips his eyes closed, and falls silent, believing the argument settled. At least until Emily gasps and Sam sighs, the sound familiar to Dean. Usually, that sigh is reserved for him, when he does something that’s stupid, and pushes people to brink of _Fine, let him do it._

But not today.

He opens his eyes again, lolls his head, and goes wide-eyed. Jace is up, at the end of the couch, scowling at the stairs with determination.

Dean scrunches his face. Is this what it’s like dealing with him? Nah, he can’t be this bad. He wouldn’t do this, at least not without a drink first. He’s not worried, Jace can barely walk two steps, and needs a human crutch-

Jace uses the back of the couch for a jumpstart, a push forward. A quick tip-tap of two steps that happens so fast he wants to praise himself for staying upright. But he doesn’t, he’s on his own now, no handholds no walls, no tables or anything he can grab for help. It’s all him.

And that’s just what he wants.

A pull of breath, another step to go with it. Holds his breath for the next one, releases it for the one after that, and repeats the process until he’s standing at the bottom of the stairs, heart galloping. He stares up, up the fourteen steps, and glances at the hand rail.

He thinks- he knows if it were you in his shoes nothing would stop you. You might’ve punched Dean in the face for underestimating you before trying this. You’d crawl up these stairs if that’s what it took-

One stair down, 13 more.

-You wouldn’t quit, even if it felt like your heart was going to explode in your chest-

12 more.

Not if breathing hurt-

11.

Or if the world was tilting itself in front of you.

10.

It wouldn’t matter who was telling you that you couldn’t. You wouldn’t care.

9.

You’d prove them wrong. Prove them wrong about you.

8.

He knows. He knows you wouldn’t balk at this challenge, you’d grin and bear it, happily if it meant-

7.

That you’d get to see him.  

6…5.

He’s going to do the same, he won’t complain. He’ll do this again if he has to.

4.

He’ll do anything to see you again. Anything.

3.

You’d go to the ends of the earth for him-

2.

And he’ll do the same for you. Nothing- _Nothing_ –

1.

Is going to stop him from getting to you.

He’s heaving at the top of the stairs, chest puffing, air sawing him practically in half. But he’s grinning, broad and bright with victory, unconcerned with the exertion he put his body through. It’s all miniscule in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter what condition he’s in, so long as he’s alive. If he’s alive, he has a chance.

Sam, Emily, and Dean stand at the bottom of the stairs, struck silent. Mostly.

“Sometimes, I don’t know if I hate him or if I admire him.” Dean murmurs thoughtfully, eyebrows raised. “I think I hate him right now.”

Sam shakes his head. “You would.”

“So, when do we leave?” Jace asks, facing them, a smirk playing on his lips.

“As soon you can walk up these stairs on your hands.” Dean says, defeated.

Emily grins, crosses her arms over her chest. “Don’t tempt him.”

 

 

April 18th

It’s a tiny town he finds himself in, utterly insignificant, and quaint. He’d venture that there’s never been a crime committed in this village. He’s surprised he isn’t finding more picket fences, bikes in yards, red mailboxes. Although, some rose bushes have completely overtaken someone’s yard, so there’s some harmless aesthetic.

Cars abandoned in the middle of the street, doors open, shop windows busted, trash galore on the sidewalks. Might be able to siphon some gas from some of these broken down vehicles, the motorbike is practically empty.

The town is eerily quiet. But vacancy always is.

He digs in his back pocket for his cigarette pack, it holds one lone cancer stick. He’ll make sure to savor this one. Up it goes, between his lips, and lit with only a thought. He groans at the first inhale, tips his head back on the exhale.

Something skitters in an alley, knocks over a trashcan, and he blinks. For a second, he forgot why he was here. The azure blue sky is silent in color, a boring shade, uninterrupted by clouds and he sighs. He filters it in, lets his perspective shift, and smiles, canines flashing when the sky changes.

Once a beautiful blue, now a dark, curdling red. That’s his favorite part: when the sky slides along the color wheel to become its opposite.

But enough about that.

He sweeps his gaze, looking for traces of you. For wisps of the residue that rub off when you and the book are near. It’s faint, close to being non-existent, but he can see it. A thin strand of black, like a string, only it’s grittier. It’s like a million grains of black sand coalesced into a wavy rope, hovering a few inches above the ground.

He races after it, eyes narrowed in, heart-rate climbing as he follows it into town, long legs carrying him with grace. Turn a corner, hurry, down the middle of the street…veer off. Blood on the side of a truck, the residue heavier here, must have stopped for a moment. You’re slowing down.

He grins around his cigarette, climbs up on the sidewalk…

And frowns. The residue is gone. Disappeared from this spot, just suddenly vanished. No direction, no clue. Even the blood stops here. Where in seven Hells did you go?

He takes a pull from his cigarette, squints in thought, and rakes a hand through his red-brown hair.

“Well, isn’t this shit?” he asks himself, frowning. Until…

Further down, around the corner of this shop a bell jingles. He thinks nothing of it at first, but then he sees that black rope quiver, shake, and then spike abruptly into a million sharp points.

“Spoke too soon, Trescott.” He smiles again, thinking. He won’t approach you, not right now. If the residue is any indication, you don’t have the book anymore. Sure, maybe you hid it, but-

His eyes go wide in realization, a realization not from deduction but from sheer sight. Light. Faintly glowing, pulsating, warm, white. He supposes that’s why the residue spiked up like that. Opposites.

He curses.

You’ve got an angel keeping watch over you, which means he has to keep a low profile. Maybe. He’ll see.

Quirking a smile, he leaves, unconcerned for the moment. He won’t go far. Not now, not since he’s found you.

 

“Oh, my God.” Jace sighs, making his way toward the living room, towel drying his hair. “That shower was damn near Heaven.”

Everyone is waiting near the front door, duffles in hand or on shoulders, begrudgingly ready to leave. Dean’s taking the heft of Jace’s supplies, thrown in with his own things. After that stupid stunt, Jace wouldn’t shut up about leaving, and the victory seemed to invigorate the kid because he’s back to being the giant pain in the ass Dean remembers.

“You ready?” Dean asks, frown deepening at the huge smile on Jace’s face.

“Yup. Let’s go.”

Emily and Sam seem mostly fine with leaving, they’re more okay about it than Dean is. They shrug, head out the door, and start a quiet conversation not meant for other ears.

“Alright you.” Dean says, pointing when Jace is close enough. The scowl he receives is immediate, he throws one right back. He paws through his duffle, pulls a handgun, and after checking to make sure it’s loaded, he offers it.

Non-chalantly, Jace grabs for it, and Dean yanks it out of his reach quick. Jace snaps his gaze up, petulant and indignant, but the look on Dean’s face stops any whining he had been thinking of doing.

“Emergencies only.” Dean says, tone, expression, stance, everything about him firm. “You hear me?”

Jace blinks at him, something making his tongue heavy. There’s something about this that’s familiar, eerily so. And it hits him. The expression Dean’s wearing, the wording…it reminds him of Quin. How protective she was, how adamant her stance was on him staying out of danger. She was the first one to give him a gun with these exact words following it up.

It hurts, remembering Quin. But somehow, it also warms him. That someone else, someone unrelated, someone he barely knows, someone he met by coincidence, would be here. To stand in her place, say those words with matching intent…

“Hey,” Dean grumps, tone sharpening, and Jace snaps himself back.

“Yeah. Yeah, I hear you.” Jace says, strained in the eyes.

Dean brow furrows as he stares down the one foot height difference, searching Jace’s face for trace of a lie. When he finds none, he nods once and hands the gun over.

Jace flashes him a quick smile, and rushes out the door. It feels like there isn’t enough air in the living room.

Dean cocks his head, eyebrows raised, but shrugs. He shuts the door after him, and hurries after Jace.

Emily and Jace are somewhat sad to put the farmhouse behind them, but the rest of their family is out there, in danger. And that is way more important than feeling secure and comfortable for a few days.

Sam and Dean are used to leaving things behind, that doesn’t mean they enjoy it though.

“Hey,” Dean says when he catches up, tagging Sam on the shoulder.

Sam hums, watching Emily and Jace squabble a little farther ahead. Something about his hair, judging from her tugging and pulling at it. He still doesn’t know what’s going to happen when everybody reunites, he’s so not ready for that. He feels nauseous thinking about it.

“So, did you see it?” Sam asks out of the blue, and Dean narrows his eyes in confusion.

“Uh, see what?”

Sam chuckles, adjusts his duffel bag. “My message for you.”

“Mes-“ Dean begins and then cuts off, snaking a smile. He knows what Sam’s talking about, and after he chuckles, he nods, saying, “Yeah. I got it.”

Inside, in the kitchen, on the fridge are the words ROWAN SNORES spelled out in alphabet magnets. Underneath it: FUCK OFF.

On the opposite door, are two words: BITCH.

Underneath it: JERK

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts, comments, anything you want to give me- my mailbox is open. ;-) Thanks for reading, I'll see you all later. Take it easy, lovelies. Life is rough.


	20. This Too Shall Pass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the apocalypse, just roll with it. You can either be a reed bending in the wind or a tree standing firm until it's snapped in half. You've always been reasonable. Which is a good thing, with all these shadows moving about in the world you're going to need your head on your shoulders. You and everyone else, there's danger out there, danger no one knows about, and it's on the move. And it has a plan. Good luck, Y/N. You're going to need it, trust me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, chapter 20 of a story I've poured my heart into, in some instances my own emotions and musings about humanity. A long journey well worth the time and effort, the struggle sometimes of writing this jewel that I'm immensely proud of. You've all made me proud of it. <3

April 17th

He’s bored, bored beyond reason and safety. Bad things happen when he gets bored, his choices of self-entertainment are always volatile and reap destruction on innocent bystanders. He’s so tired of waiting, hiding in the wings, so to speak. But, you gotta plan the work to work the plan.

He yawns, stretches his arms above his head, and adjusts his legs kicked up onto the desk in front of him. He wonders if anyone notices his absence, or if there’s a world-wide APB out on him. He’d like that, it’d entertain him for a few days at least.

He sighs, loud and blustery like a pouty child, his boredom creeping back in. It’s raining outside, droplets pattering on a cloudy window, and beating down on the tin roof above. A warehouse, out in Oregon, up in the mountains and overgrown wildlife, the lush foliage and undergrowth. That’s where he’s biding his time, almost three years of it.

Three years of spreading lies and propaganda for a religion almost as old as time. Granted, the religion proved to be true on one count, but nearly all of them are when you get right down to it. Anyway, he had been successful in starting a movement, creating a loyal force of soldiers reverent to his very existence. It was going well.

They were all across the country, spreading influence, conquering ground, claiming cities, rebuilding a few of them. They were the driving force of the apocalypse, the main thing to be feared. No one dared fight or stand against them. Even demons were wary about causing contention with them. Sheer number was the only thing stopping a war.

He’s digressing, he does that a lot. Staying out of sight and keeping his ear to the ground gives him a lot of time to think. A lot of time to be bored.

A knock. A knock at the heavy metal door.

“What?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest, still staring out at the pouring rain.

The door screeches on its tracks, squeaks and jangles as it’s pushed open. “I have news.”

News. This should be good. It’s been so long since he’s had news.

“Continue.” He tries not to sound hopeful, sound excited.

“The facility in South Carolina has been compromised.”

South Carolina. Off to a good start. Let’s see if the lackey can take it home.

“Prisoners escaped, but were recaptured.”

Oh, bummer. He frowns. “All of them?”

“Except one.”

Yes. He drops his feet to the floor, turns in his chair, and faces the messenger, eyes alight. “The boy.”

“Yes, sir.”

If the boy escaped, that can only mean one thing.

“Y/N was not involved, however.”

“Dammit, Jim-“ his name is Tim “- If you worked for the press, this is the part where you’d be fired.” He throws an arm over the back of his chair, slumping.

“The Winchesters were responsible, if the reports are accurate.”

Damn. Damn them. Of course they’d be involved at this point. But maybe that can work in his favor. Perhaps they can deal with Crowley for him…Or maybe not. They seem incapable of felling that pomp, irritating, smooth-talking demon.

He runs a thumb over his bottom lip, deep in thought. He could work an inside angle perhaps?

“Any news of betrayal amongst Crowley’s ranks?” Come on, Jimmy, give me some hope.

Tim pushes a contemplative expression, cautious. “Uncertain. A small possibility: someone newly converted…a known associate of Y/N’s.”

He grins, raising an eyebrow. “Let’s focus on that, as well as keeping tabs on our girl. Her position?”

“Unchanged.”

“Perfect.” He claps, and stands swiftly, chair legs scraping loudly. “Jimbo, I think I’m going to take a walk around the compound. Anything new comes in,” he says, heading for the door, a pep in his step, his mood significantly higher. “The loud speaker works just fine.”

“Yes, sir.” Tim responds, and slides the door shut after him. “Would you like an umbrella?”

A hand waved flippantly, unconcerned. “Not unless it’s raining men.”

 

 

April 18th roughly 7:00pm

I can sense him coming from a mile away, like someone’s staring at the back of my head, burning holes through flesh and bone, only instead of my head, it’s my chest. This guy, or woman can blow my cover if I let them get too close.

I would’ve thought that if Crowley was going to send someone to check up on me, it’d at least be someone capable, someone that knows what the Hell they’re doing. But no, here this idiot comes, not trying to mask their presence at all.

I sigh, and make the wise time-saving, mission-saving, life-preserving decision to meet him half way, just two miles from that rinky-dink village you’re holed up in, you and that angel. That’s the last thing I need: an angel coming after my ass, trying to smite me, point out what I am, ruin any chances I have of getting close to you.

A blink and I’m gone, quicker than a flash, quieter than sunlight, and fluid as water on a flat surface. I’m really getting better at this whole ‘demon’ thing. It’s starting to grow on me, honestly. The only thing I don’t like is the uncontrollable urge to just…kill. It kind of gets in the way of rational thinking, of being patient, it’s like an itch I can’t scratch. A burning, aching, smoldering, full-body itch that doesn’t ebb with time. It only gets stronger.

I need to take care of that, soon. Before I reunite with you. Last thing I _really_ need is to tear open your ribcage on sight, peel open your chest like a Christmas present, pull out the insides. Not even you would survive that.

Anyway- _Anyway._

Here I am, in another village, this one about the same size, almost the same look. So similar these two villages could be cousins, or sisters.

I’m just gonna plop my ass on the hood of a car in the driveway of some brick house and wait. Have nothing else to do. It’s laughable, really. The irony of it. Before I died, all I did was wait: wait on news, wait on you, wait on Emily, wait on something worse. Like Holy Fire raining down from the sky, wiping out whatever was left. Now, here I sit, raised from the dead doing the exact same thing that drove me crazy when I was human: waiting.

For a long time I carried the thought that maybe the apocalypse was a test, the Final Test from God- which I never believed in -to determine if mankind was worthy in any sort of way to be salvaged, to be mercied. But I see now, see the apocalypse for what it is.

It’s the final grade. And we failed.

I’m not surprised, I didn’t have much faith in humanity before the world ended. When it was all over, I had none. Still don’t.

“Well, look at you. Relaxed as a cat on a sun-warmed porch,”

Oh, this guy. He’s…annoying. But apparently, reliable. No, that’s not it-

“I take that to mean you’ve got pretty little miss tied up somewhere?”

He’s loyal. That’s why Crowley keeps him. The only reason. One demon he doesn’t have to worry about stabbing him in the back of the neck. Just one.

I sigh, fold my arms over my chest, and drop my gaze. More often than not, I can find myself staring at the sky without knowing I’m doing it.

I lay my eyes on him, slowly, like I’ve got all day and no one to keep a thumb-tack in on a map. “Why would I tie her up? Seems unnecessary.” Fuck, I want this conversation over already.

“Much like you are proving to be.”

Oh, are we to that part of the conversation already? Good, saves me some time. I flourish a hand in front of me, palm skyward, as if waiting for a fuck to give to come from above. But none arrive. “I don’t have to prove anythin’. He’ll get the girl when gets the girl.”

The demon in front of me bristles, puffs his chest and stands tall which doesn’t mean much because I’ve got at least five inches on the guy. “You should be careful with that tongue of yours.”

“Yeah, I agree. But I don’t have to worry about that around you,” jeez, this is boring. And irritating. If he doesn’t leave soon, I might kill him just for the Hell of it. Before this jackass can muster a response, I sail on, crossing my ankles in a display of leisure. “Now why don’t ya’ run on back t’your fearless leader. I’m sure he’s missed ya’ tongue on his heels.”

Proshchay, and fuck off. And away I go, glad to be gone and rid of that spineless, pompous, tame-mannered dickwad. I’m sure if I had stuck around he’d have threatened with something along the lines of: You’ll regret talking back. Or you should have more respect, Crowley isn’t someone you want to test…blah, blah, blah. Stuff I’ve heard a million times, and never once have I listened to it.

I doubt I ever will listen to threats. I make them, not adhere to them.

And anyway, Crowley hasn’t given me a reason to fear him. He wasn’t even the one that killed me, had some nameless nondescript lackeys do it. I don’t fear or respect a man that can’t be bothered to get his own hands dirty in the name of his business.

Nothing new in the grapevine, nothing different in the black and white this messenger gave me. Just let me know that Crowley’s got eyes me. He’s nothing if not careful, smart. I will give him that, but I’ve yet to see him ruthless. Which is what I’m waiting for.

I’ve got a day to kill, time on my hands, and after popping in to check and make sure you’re still where you are, I take off. Intent to scratch this itch. It won’t be hard, SC is crawling with cultists, ripe for the slaughter, and they make it so fun. They fight, and fight, and yell, and curse and try so hard to survive.

Though, I will admit I’m curious about where they all came from. Who their leader is…might be worth my time to find out. They aren’t in league with Crowley, so maybe an enemy of my enemy is my friend situation could be worked out here? Just something to distract the quote on quote ‘King of Hell’ when I finally make the move to liberate you of that angel.

Though, that might take a minute. Other demons are a pinch, angels are another matter entirely. It’s easy to destroy what you know like the back of your hand. The unknown, those dark waters with hidden depths? I’m not keen to walk right out in them.

But I do know a couple of people that have waded those waters…a couple of idiots. Shit, maybe this will all be easier than I thought? Here I’ve been, focused on you, the impenetrability of your company, the unlikelihood of gaining an upper-hand from this angle.

But perhaps a straightforward approach isn’t the way to go. These plans I’m trying to make just keep going around in circles. Ok, not a problem.

First things first, I’ll find these dumbass hunters, see what they’re up to, where they’re going. If they’ve found your trail, or if they have no idea. See if they still have that car, if not I’ll make a pit-stop at that church, peruse the car. And then I’ll mosey on to that compound out in Pacolet, get a few answers. Mainly one: who’s your leader?

Won’t be difficult to kidnap someone, disappear, have a nice little chat out in the middle of nowhere. Nature’s clean-up crew will take care of the rest when I’m done.

If I play my cards right, I can have an army after Crowley, both sides can suffer enough casualties that getting to you will be child’s play. More than likely, if the Winchesters are intent on capturing you they’ll get caught in the mayhem, the cross-fire. All my problems can be solved if I handle this deftly. There will be a measure of luck in the equation, that’s certain.

But I like to think I’m a lucky guy. I just hope I can find you when all of this is over. Wouldn’t it be shit if I succeeded in fabricating a war to indulge my own motives and desires for the war to obliterate those very things?

I’d call that irontragedy. A combination of irony and tragedy.

I heave a sigh, throw my head back with it, muscles in my throat tugging tight. I think the best place to start this search, to start this long process would be the farmhouse. I’m not happy to go back, revisit the place where I got my ass kicked to Hell and back. But I’ll do it. I’ve done harder things. Harder things than die.

 

You yawn widely, staring up at the ceiling of your bedroom, the glow in the dark stars you have glued to it. They don’t glow now, not since your mom came in and pulled your curtains open, bathing your room in vibrant gold sunshine. You were awake long before she arrived, for some reason, around 3 in the morning you peeled your eyes open. And kept them open, fully rested.

But you refused to believe it, for another three hours you laid in bed and waited for your brain to power down and settle. But it didn’t.

But now that the curtains have been pulled, and the call of breakfast given, you relent your conquest for sleep and slip out of bed, rubbing at your eyes. Two hours and you’ll be out of here, buckle into the backseat of the family SUV for 4 hours to venture up to camping grounds your family has used since you were a little girl.

Thank goodness it’s summer. You can sleep and laze and be a waste of space when you all get back. You need to catch up on some tv shows, go to the mall, hang out with friends. All the typical things kids do on summer break. The pool, god yes, the pool.

Everything needed for the camping trip is already in the back of the SUV, packed a week before. Your dad liked to be prepared and organized, far in advance. It drove you crazy sometimes, just how persistent and OCD he was about it.

Down the hall, to the bathroom. Brush teeth, shower, pee. Morning routine, you’re going to miss it for the next week. Hot water mostly.

When you leave the bathroom, new clothes on, laid out the night before on the counter, you stop in the hallway for a moment. You place a finger on it, but something feels strange in the air. Brushing it off, you scramble down the stairs, stomach growling. But when you hit the landing, you halt again.

It’s quiet, but not just quiet, dead silent. And you know because the front door is open, wide open with your parents outside on the front steps, looking out into the street. There’s no noise from cars, or birds singing, no crickets, or dogs barking, there isn’t even any wind to be heard blowing. It’s like someone muted your ears on you.

 Apprehension rolling in your stomach, you patter to the front door, curiosity getting the better of you. Your parents don’t turn around, apparently preoccupied with something. Something in the sky. You hurry forward, burst past them and snap your head back, jaw tingling with nausea.

In the sky, explosions seem to be going off, but they make no noise, and seem to have no origin. No, that’s not right, they aren’t explosions, they’re implosions. Rings, rings of something of white and glowing, tinged with blue appear above before they’re sucked away, shrinking into nothing. They do have an effect on the area around them as it turns out: clouds that are close enough are chopped in half, sliced, diced, evaporated in a flash of light.

It happens all at once, thousands of these rings imploding, altering the skyscape.

And then you hear the sirens from in town, dozens of them. Only a second before a ground shaking explosion lights up the sky, a mushroom cloud of red and orange. You think it might be city hall that just burst into flames.

The whole neighborhood is outside, people on their lawns, in their driveway, yards, wherever. So they can get a good view of what’s going on.

As if anyone has a clue.

If you had any clue that your parents would be dead three weeks later, maybe you would’ve been a little colder, a little more prepped for the carnality that humanity would be reduced to. But you were just a kid, the unthinkable: death of a parent, death of your parents, never once crossed your mind.

For a month after they died you camped out in your family’s spot up in Maine until those camping supplies ran dry. For a month, you mourned them by partaking of their favorite past-time, all the while withdrawing inside yourself.

It was a year before you met them, before you met a couple of people that didn’t want to skin you alive and take all of your shit. A year that you spent in absolute terror of human beings, until you met them. And after you met them, you decided that being alone in the apocalypse wasn’t something you wanted to be.

So, you tagged along. Tagged along and watched their backs, and they watched yours. Faced horrors and hardships together, braved winters and starvation, braved the scum of the world. Together. And it wasn’t too long after that…

You met the Callahans.

Goddamn Callahans.

It seems so long ago that it all began, when it’s barely been three years. Three years has never felt so long, the days innumerable, indistinguishable. Or maybe the last three years has just been one really extensive day. It wouldn’t surprise you, almost nothing does anymore. Almost.

You’ve been awake for a few hours. Nearly three, sitting at one of the tables in the diner, staring out the windows, chin in your palm. Castiel had initially placed you in bed, but after waking up you wanted a change of scenery, needing the fading light and the passing clouds, the trash skittering down the street. It felt like you were trapped in that meat locker, trapped with your thoughts, snared by yourself.

Castiel has tried talking to you a few times, but you’ve remained quiet, gaze locked outside. You’ve been leaping thought through time: thinking of your childhood, every instance that was glanced over in the beginning that you can now pick apart and squint at. Evidence. That’s what you’re looking for: evidence. And you’re finding it, more than you know what to do with.

So, you just leave it be. Not denying its existence, but not shoving it into the light. It’s there, on the border of your sight. But it’s not taking the fore-front of your vision. You’ve been processing, accepting it, or trying to at least.

But how easy is it supposed to be, finding out you’re not who you thought you were? Finding out you’re not even human. It isn’t an easy pill to swallow, but that’s what you do. You swallow it, because you don’t have time for an identity-crisis. It’s the end of the world, death of humanity, everyone on their own. One stupid move and you could end up dead.

You have to learn to accept everything. That’s the biggest downside to the apocalypse, you don’t get the choice of denial anymore. You hardly have a choice about anything. This is no different. On the last day of his life, Rowan had taught you something important, something terrible and damning, but it was true. A staple of the apocalypse.

You don’t have to like it. You just have to be willing.

Fine then. You’re willing. Done and done, you don’t like it, but you’re willing.

Enough with the moping, the sulking, the turmoil.

“We should leave.” You say, practically out of the blue since you’ve been silent for long. Castiel shifts from his spot at the diner’s door, jostling the door that’s slightly warped from sun and time and neglect.

“Why?”

“There’s no reason to stay here. We can get some supplies, be gone by tomorrow.” Staying on the road was like flipping a coin, you might survive out there, but you could just as easily be killed by some psycho wielding a rusty machete.

You just didn’t want to sit in one place for too long. Being as there’s only one of you who needs sleep, water, and food to survive, you could last quite a while here in this town. Longer still since you don’t need nutrition or rest like a normal human being. Yes, you could stay here for a grand stretch of time.

But if you got comfortable, if you settled in, you’d have time to think. Think about everything, which is the last thing you want. If you’re out on the road, you’re going to be spending a lot of time looking for supplies, more ammunition, staying out of the way of other survivors, worrying about where to hunker down when night falls. You’re going to be so preoccupied with your survival you won’t have time to think about other things.

“Being out in the open doesn’t sound wise.” Castiel muses, a hint or dread in his voice. He knows arguing with you is futile, whatever his stance, whether he agrees or strongly refutes your decision, he knows the both of you are leaving this town tomorrow.

“We’ll be careful. Avoid people and highways, take deserted back roads.” You have a half-cooked plan, something only days long. Food, water, blankets, and your revolver, and a dim idea, a decision to avoid towns. That’s it. Avoid towns and stay alive.

That’s good enough for you.

Staying alive sounds remarkably easy now. Now that you aren’t human, since you have an angel on your side, since you’ve cut ties with people you call family. Surviving’s the easiest thing you’ll ever do. It’s trying to live again, later on down the road, that’s going to kill you.

“Just one more thing.” You say, and lean back in your chair. In window, opposite from you, some feet away you can vaguely make out Castiel’s reflection, milky and soft, faint. But you can see him.

“Yes?”

“I want the book back.” It’s easy to hear the demand, the possessiveness in your tone attached with this tome of mysteries. After all the sacrifices, the loss, the pain, the unnecessary effort of keeping it, that book belongs to you. To you it’s drenched in the blood of Quin, and Rowan, and anyone that’s died trying to obtain it, the people that tried to take it from you. All the suffering that was wrought just from its presence alone…

It’s yours to carry. And carry it you will.

For a long time, it’s as still as a graveyard, the air just as rigid because you glare at his reflection, glare so furiously that Castiel shifts behind you, feeling uncomfortable. He can’t see your reflection, but he can sense the animosity, the prickly authority, the charge in the air.

“The book.” You repeat. It’s a long time before he moves, reluctance in every motion. But in the end, the book ends up in front of you on the table, leather black as night, smooth as silk, runes on the spine glowing like molten gold. You stroke the edge of a cover, inch a tiny smile.

END OF PART ONE

 TO BE CONTINUED…

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xz5Mx3a8kRw>  (Part one’s credit song)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, okay. I know what you're thinking- I mean, I don't but- yeah. I'm gonna chop this story up, because I'm not done with it obviously, but I don't want one ginormous story. So, I'm going to see where we go. If it isn't over by the time I reach another 70,000 words, I'm going to slice it again. Thank you guys so much for following along and being a part of this, words truly cannot express my gratitude, the warm and fuzzies you guys give me. I love you guys so much, you have no idea. My encouragement, my critics, my reason for writing. That's what you are, my lovelies. As always, take it easy. Life is rough. I will see you all again, count on that.


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